


What Is Left Is but Ashes and Dust

by pooh_collector



Category: White Collar
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Episode Related, Episode: s02e16 Under the Radar, Episode: s04e02 Most Wanted, Episode: s04e17 Wanted, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Mildly Dubious Consent, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 12:59:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2389112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pooh_collector/pseuds/pooh_collector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternative ending to Under the Radar.  Alder gets everything he wants, the treasure and Neal. In return Neal loses everything he loves, New York, Mozzie, June, working with White Collar and worst of all, Peter.  </p>
<p>Written for the WC Big Bang over on LJ.</p>
<p>All of the beautiful art in this story is thanks to angel.  She also provided the plot bunny for this story, the first three sentences, the beta and massive amounts of cheer leading.</p>
<p>Check out ang’s beautiful art <a href="http://angelita26.livejournal.com/140243.html">here</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	What Is Left Is but Ashes and Dust

What Is Left Is but Ashes and Dust 

"I'm sorry, Peter." Neal's hand was shaking as he raised the gun, aimed it at Peter, and pulled the trigger. The shot was loud, but the silence afterward was deafening. 

Peter felt nothing but a strange displacement of the air when the bullet hit him, but suddenly he was on the ground, the cement warm beneath his back, the sky azure above. He lay there, strangely numb for what felt like a long time, but could have been only moments. Then he was engulfed by a raging fire that ripped from his chest outward across his body. Finally, the silence was joined by darkness as the bright blue of the sky abruptly faded away and Peter knew nothing more. 

*** 

Neal had followed the clang of the weather buoy around the docks to an old, nondescript brick warehouse. The large, rusted roll-up door sported a brand new heavy-duty padlock and chain. He gave the padlock an ineffectual tug and then glanced around looking for another way in. 

“You always were persistent Neal. One of the many qualities I admire about you." 

Neal whirled at the sound of Adler's voice. His former mentor was standing just a few feet away from Neal, with two of his hired guns flanking him. 

”The FBI’s closing in Adler.” 

“I know," Adler replied confidently, too confidently. "There’s an eighteen wheeler just inside there loaded with a collection of art more valuable than life. You help me get past the FBI perimeter, half of it’s yours.” 

“Wow, sounds like a really good deal. You must think I’m an idiot.” Despite his expertise in the art of the con, Neal couldn't hide in his expression or his voice the contempt he felt for Adler. 

“I think you’re an opportunist,” Adler replied mildly. 

“You took everything from me,” Neal admonished, as grief swelled in his chest. 

“Only after you tried to do the same to me,” Adler countered. “All’s fair in love and war.” 

There was a problem with Adler's analogy. There was a difference between money and people. It didn't really surprise Neal that Adler didn't see that. Vincent Adler only loved one thing, Vincent Adler. “Tell me why Kate had to die? If you want my help now, tell me,” Neal demanded. 

“The explosives on the plane were her idea. You parachute over the ocean, the plane explodes, you live happily ever after. Then she called, said Burke had just arrived. Then as now, he threatened to ruin everything." 

“So you blew up the plane early.” 

“Could have waited another thirty seconds," Adler conjectured blithely, with a tilt of his head. "And you’d be dead too.” 

Neal thought back to what Adler had said on the U-boat. _“Okay, shoot them. Then get a mop or something.”_ He shook his head in disgust. “Am I supposed to be grateful?” 

“You were as close to a son as I ever had.” 

“No, I’m nothing like you,” Neal retorted. He would never willingly take the life of anyone, let alone someone he knew and purported to care about. 

“There’s nothing sadder than a conman conning himself. Come on Neal. Let’s stop hurting the people we love. Let’s bring this thing full circle, just like old times.” 

Neal shuddered inwardly at the lies that flowed so easily from Adler's tongue. “Go to hell.” 

At that moment Peter walked around the corner of the warehouse, coming from the same direction that Neal had minutes earlier. Neal noted with dismay that his partner's weapon was still holstered. 

"And, here he comes now, the man with the rare talent to nose his way in and ruin everything for you Neal." 

"That's not true," Neal asserted, looking from Peter to Adler as he shook his head again. 

"Of course it is. He chased you for years. Put you in handcuffs and got you sentenced to four years in maximum security. He kept you from Kate. He took any chance you had to have your happily ever after with the woman you loved." 

Neal looked at Peter and swallowed hard. Adler had always been stellar at convincing people of anything he wanted and he was putting those skills to use now. "No." 

“He took from you, now it's time for you to take from him,” Adler's voice was almost gentle as he pulled a gun from behind the hem of his suit jacket and moved slowly toward Neal. 

Neal realized now that Adler's henchmen had unholstered their own weapons as some point. One of them was trained on Peter, the other on himself. 

"Neal," Peter said shaking his head. Neal wasn’t sure whether it was a warning or an admonishment. "Adler, I have agents all over the area. It's only a matter of time before they get here. You can't get away." 

Adler ignored Peter and focused on Neal as he took the younger man's hand and fit the gun into his grip. "Kill him Neal. Free yourself from the person who really took everything from you." 

Neal shook his head and held the gun pointed at the ground. "No. I won't do your bidding," Neal spat out. 

Alder's eyes turned hard, a look Neal had seen before and dreaded. "Either you kill him or I will." Adler liked to play games where he led people to believe that they had a choice, when in fact, he had already taken away all the options but the one that fulfilled his own desires. Neal had seen him do it countless times when he worked for the man, had been the subject of such ploys when he didn't even realize it, but now under a bright blue sky, with the smell of salt in the air, Neal was very aware of the corner Adler had painted him into. 

"Neal, listen to me," Peter said as Neal took his eyes from Adler to look over at Peter again. "The cavalry is on its way. Just stay with me here." 

"Neal," Adler chided in his most commanding tone. "We need to be on our way. Do it." 

“Neal don’t do this. Don’t let him talk you into something that you know is wrong,” Peter placated. 

"I'm sorry, Peter." Neal's hand was shaking as he raised the gun, aimed it at Peter, and pulled the trigger. 

*** 

Afterward, as Peter lay on the ground and the stench of cordite filled Neal's nostrils, he let one of Adler's goons pull him away to a waiting limo and push him into the back seat. He had no idea where they were going, or why Adler didn't just leave him behind to take the fall and he honestly didn't care. The two things that had driven his life for the past year were gone, his need to find out who had killed Kate and why, and Peter. 

The man followed Neal into the back of the limo and sat on the black leather upholstered seat across from him. Adler slid in and took the seat next to Neal. 

As the car began to pull away, the man grasped Neal's left ankle roughly and using what looked like a large hunting knife that he had pulled from a sheath on his belt, sawed the anklet off of Neal's leg. 

"Careful, Mr. Jacobs, we wouldn't want to injure our friend," Adler cautioned, when Neal jerked as the knife cut through his sock and grazed his skin. 

Once the anklet was removed, Jacobs opened the window and tossed it away. Neal watched it go, seeing the life he had come to love in New York, with Peter, El, the team at White Collar, June and Mozzie go with it. With the darkly tinted windows closed again, Neal had no idea where they were headed and no idea how they managed to circumvent the perimeter the FBI had established at the docks. 

They hadn't been driving for too long however when the car stopped. Jacobs opened the door and exited, followed by Adler. Neal hesitated for a moment, getting out the car meant that he was complying with Adler's wishes, which wasn't something Neal wanted to do. On the other hand, where else was he going to go? He was officially a fugitive, who had cut his anklet and shot his handler. Neal shuddered involuntarily at the memory of pulling the trigger and watching Peter crumple to the ground. Then he got out of the car. 

*** 

The first thing to come back on line was sound. Warbled voices and tinny mechanical pings and beeps. The next was smell, antiseptic and plastic and air that was overly clean. Eventually, we was able to pry his eyes open. At first all he saw was the white haze created by his unfocused eyes. He blinked slowly a couple of times and the room around him righted itself. White curtains surrounded the bed he lay in on three sides, with a jumble of monitors gathered around the safety rails. He sighed and felt an unpleasant tug deep in his chest. 

Moments later a tall woman dressed in scrubs appeared with a clipboard in her hand. She checked the readings on the various machines, checked the lines that had been inserted into various parts of his body, including what appeared to Peter to be chest drain and wrote some things down on the clipboard before looking him in the eyes. 

"I'm Dr. Haywood. I performed the surgery to remove the bullet from your chest." She said it nonchalantly, as if it was every day that she pulled bullets from bodies and as if his foggy mind actually remembered what had happened to him. 

"You were very lucky Agent Burke, somehow the bullet missed everything vital. You suffered only tissue and muscle damage. It's not going to be pretty for a while, but it's nothing some time and some physical therapy won't fix." 

As his doctor spoke, Peter's memory returned. He remembered the look in Neal's eyes as he raised the gun with a shaking hand, he remembered the look of pain and regret reflected there. He remembered how carefully Neal aimed, despite his trembling hand, before the POP that brought the bullet to his body. 

Despite the drugs flowing through his system and the pull of the lingering anesthesia, Peter was very clear on one thing. There was no luck involved. Neal could have delivered a kill shot easily, but he didn't. His partner had intended for him to live. In fact, Neal had calculated where to place that shot, for Peter to look as if he was mortally wounded, but in actuality to be as unharmed as possible under the circumstances. 

Peter drifted off again with that knowledge in the forefront of his mind. When he woke next some hours later he was in a regular two-bed hospital room. The second bed was empty but the chair beside his bed was occupied. El had clearly been crying. Her eyes were red rimmed, her makeup splotchy. Peter could feel her slender hand gripping his fingers. He squeezed back. 

"Peter," she said with a warm smile that belied the anxiety he knew she was feeling. 

"Hi hon," he whispered, his voice scratchy and thin. "Where's Neal?" 

El shook her head, either unable or unwilling to tell Peter. "El," he pressed. "Where's Neal?" 

"I don't want you worrying about Neal right now, Peter. You've only been out of surgery for a few hours. Please, you need to rest." 

Peter shook his head weakly against his pillow. The drugs that the IV was pumping into his system were beginning to get the better of him again, despite the fact that he'd been awake for less than five minutes. "El, I need to talk to Diana. I'm pretty sure that Neal was taken by Vincent Adler." 

El startled at his statement. “Peter, Diana and Jones think Neal ran. He cut his anklet.” 

“No, he… Adler took him. He was there with his flunkies. He confronted Neal and …” Peter brought himself up short before he could say the words, _and then Neal shot me._ No matter what may come, Peter knew he had to keep that part to himself, at least until they got Neal back. Then they could work everything else out. 

Peter’s eyes were closing as his exhaustion weighed him down. “Go back to sleep, hon. I’ll call Diana and let her know.” 

“Now El, please, call her now.” Peter’s words were beginning to slur, but he had to be sure that his wife understood the urgency. 

As his eyes slid completely closed, Peter heard the sound of Elizabeth’s cell phone beeping as she dialed and he allowed himself to sink back into sleep. 

*** 

Neal emerged from the limo to find himself on another pier, though very different from the last. In place of the industrial and commercial buildings and vessels, several high-end yachts were lined up in slips. Jacobs took Neal by the arm and guided him down to a sleek 80 foot motor yacht. That explained how Adler managed to evade law enforcement for so long, a false registration and the flag of Cape Verde, a country with no U.S. extradition treaty, flying from the stern. 

Neal was led down to a stateroom with a double bed and one nightstand, a dresser, a narrow closet, a small desk with a chair, and a sink with a vanity on the wall outside a bathroom with a stall shower and a toilet. It was an inside stateroom with no windows. 

Just after the yacht pulled away from its slip a crewman entered the room with a bundle of clothing. He swiftly and efficiently placed the items in their appropriate storage places and then left again without saying a word to Neal. So, Adler hadn’t planned on taking him, it was a spur of the moment decision. Neal noticed all of these things, the flag on the boat, the arrangement of his room, the afterthought of essentials, with a strange detachment, as if they were simply interesting facts typed on index cards in a file and not the center of his new reality. 

As the yacht's engines fired up and the ship pulled away from its slip, Neal realized in some corner of his brain that he was shaking and that the dispassionate way he was viewing everything could quite possibly be chalked up to shock. He ran a trembling hand through his hair and smelled the gunshot residue that still lingered on his fingers and the sleeve of his dark grey suit. The scent brought his mind back to the pier, to Peter lying on the ground, the blood seeping from his chest wound had matched the dark red tie Peter had been wearing. Neal shuddered hard, stood up from where he had been perched on the edge of the bed and ruthlessly stripped off everything he was wearing. His four hundred dollar burgundy tie, his dark grey designer suit and hand tailored white shirt. He wadded the remains of his ensemble up as best as possible and shoved it all into the small garbage pail under the desk. 

Then he made his way into the small bathroom, turned on the shower as hot as it would go and scrubbed his skin until it turned bright red. The shower helped to remove the physical remnants of the day from his body and bring the shock symptoms under control as well. Neal felt clearer and less shaky as he dried himself off. There was a plastic cup by the sink and Neal filled it with water and sipped at it as he found a pair a tan linen pants and a blue polo shirt to dress in. 

There was a pair of Docksiders under the bed that fit him perfectly. Apparently, Peter wasn’t the only one who knew his shoe size. Dressed and as ready as he was going to be for whatever Adler had in store for him next, Neal sat on the bed and propped himself up against the headboard to wait. 

He must have dozed off because the door to his room opening abruptly startled him awake. Jacobs loomed in the entryway. “Mr. Adler would like to see you.” Neal almost laughed at the politeness in Jacob’s tone, as if his words were a request and not a command. 

Neal slid off the bed and walked past Jacobs into the narrow passageway. Jacobs closed Neal’s door and then led them up onto the deck at the stern of the ship. Neal was surprised to find that the sun was setting. He had lost more time than he thought. 

Adler was sitting at a dining table, dressed elegantly but casually in white linen pants and a matching short-sleeved button down shirt. The table was dressed elegantly as well, with crystal, china and a bouquet of pink and white blossoms. 

“Neal, join me please. Dinner’s just about to be served,” Adler said, beckoning Neal with a wave of his hand. 

Neal hesitated, warring with himself again over what it meant or didn’t mean to comply with Adler’s ‘requests.’ He concluded that under the circumstances, somewhere in the middle of the ocean, with nowhere to escape to and no discernable advantage in not joining Adler for dinner that he would accept. 

Sitting down at the table Neal felt a strange moment of déjà vu, taking him back to that first night they had met when Neal switched place cards with Adler’s date and took the first step in the long con that would eventually lead not to Adler being deceived, but Neal himself. It wouldn’t end that way this time, Neal promised himself silently. He knew Adler now, what he was capable of, what he would do to satisfy his greed. 

As Neal took his seat Adler poured wine into the glass at Neal’s place setting. Then he picked up his own glass and held it out, “To a new beginning for you and me, Neal.” 

Neal swallowed hard at the revulsion that churning in his stomach and picked up his glass tapping it against Adler’s. 

“I wasn’t sure you had the guts to shoot Burke, Neal. I’m glad I was wrong about that. It’s opened the door for all kinds of possibilities for us.” 

Neal was only prepared to play along with Adler so far. “It wasn’t a matter of fortitude Vincent. You didn’t give me any options.” 

“You could have let one of my men do it.” Adler appeared to contemplate that for a moment and then asked, “Why didn’t you?” 

“You really don’t know?” Neal inquired, trying to deflect Adler from the truth that his intention was to be as certain as possible that Peter would live, that Peter would find him, and save him from himself yet again. 

“I have my suspicions,” Adler hedged. 

“Good, I like being one up on you.” 

Vincent laughed. “It’s nice to see you still have that old spark, Neal.” 

At that moment their dinner arrived, lamb chops with garlic mashed potatoes and haricot vert sautéed with shallots. 

It was delicious but Neal barely managed to pick at his plate, his mind and his body still too unsettled by all that happened in the last few days. He indulged his morose mood and let himself run through the litany; kidnapped, drugged, nearly blown to bits, drugged again, nearly drowned, shot at, and forced to shoot someone he cared about far more than he should. It was a wonder he could even manage to drink the wine, let alone eat the food. 

If Adler noticed, he said nothing, for which Neal was grateful. He didn’t really feel up to more mind games with his former mentor and mark at the moment. 

When Adler finished eating, the dinner dishes were cleared away and cups of coffee and dessert plates of New York cheesecake with raspberry sauce were set in front of them. Neal didn’t even make the attempt for the sake of appearances with the heavy confection, but he drank the coffee gladly. Anything to keep himself alert in Vincent’s presence. 

Adler had kept the dinner conversation to a minimum, an inconsequential discourse on the weather and the perfection of the rareness of the lamb. But as Neal drained his coffee, Adler set his fork on the edge of his plate and turned to look Neal in the eye. 

“I have plans for you Neal.” 

“That’s hardly a revelation.” 

Adler smirked. “No, I don’t suppose it is. But those plans could be very pleasant for you, or not.” 

Again with the choices that really contained no choice at all. “There’s only one plan I’m really interested in.” 

Adler raised an eyebrow. “And, that would be?” 

“The plan that allows me to leave whenever I want.” 

“I’m afraid that’s the one possibility I can’t grant you.” 

“Can’t or won’t?” Neal pressed. 

“Why get caught up in semantics?” 

Neal shook his head. “What do you want from me now?” He asked. 

“Nothing too onerous, Neal, I assure you,” Adler replied with a sly smirk. 

Neal cringed inwardly at the thought of what Adler would find onerous. “I think your definition of that word is very different from mine.” 

“Oh, I doubt that very much. You’ve never shied away from passing off your work for that of the great masters. And, now we have a whole U-Boat worth of art for you to work from. Honestly, I think you’ll relish the challenge.” 

“You have the originals. Why would you want forgeries?” 

“Think Neal,” Adler responded. “I do have the originals and I want to keep them, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t profit from them too.” 

“We?” 

“I did promise you half if you helped us get past the FBI, didn’t I?” 

*** 

The next time Peter woke, his wife was not alone. Sara Ellis, dressed in her usual couture style, a fitted blue dress and five-inch heels, was sitting in a chair beside El. The dress color reminded Peter of the color the sky as he saw it from his back on the pier two days ago. 

“Sara,” Peter said as he blinked the world back into sharper focus. “What brings you by?” 

Sara smiled at him, but Peter noticed that it didn’t reach her eyes. “I just dropped by to see how you were doing and give you an update.” 

“I guess it can’t be good, if Jones and Diana are too scared to come and tell me themselves.” Peter was trying to make light of everything that had happened in the past couple of days, but he was pretty sure the attempt fell short when Sara looked away from him and El squeezed his hand. 

“Neal’s gone, Peter. And, so is Adler and the contents of the U-Boat. They got away.” 

“No, that can’t be. We had a perimeter established at the docks.” 

Sara shook her head. “They slipped through. The teams weren’t looking for a limo, so Adler just went right past one of the checkpoints and it looks like they used forged paperwork and disguised the crates containing the art to look like innocuous cartons of canned goods.” 

“Damn it,” Peter muttered as the beeps emitted by the equipment that still surrounded his bed sped up. 

“Peter, honey, you need to stay calm,” El entreated. 

Peter took a deep breath, feeling a tightness in his chest and the haunting of pain that he knew was hidden by the drugs in his system, and let it out slowly. The last thing he wanted to do was give El any further reason to worry. “Sorry, hon.” 

“Diana and Jones are following every lead, they’ll find them.” 

Peter knew that Sara was trying to be reassuring, but he also knew there was something she wasn’t telling him. “What else, Sara?” 

Sara hesitated. “The Justice Department believes that Neal was in league with Adler. They’ve listed him as a fugitive, not a kidnapping victim. Diana spent half the day yesterday arguing Neal’s case, but with the treasure in hand, Justice didn’t believe that Adler had any reason to take Neal.” 

Peter ran a hand down his face. What a fucked up situation. If he were to admit that Neal was coerced into shooting him and that he let Adler take him, then Neal’s back in prison for the rest of his life for assault with intent to kill a federal officer, regardless of the fact that Neal did what he did to protect Peter. If he were to say nothing then Justice would continue to have no reason to believe that Neal didn’t go with Adler willingly, that he skipped on his probation and he’s back in prison. Peter only had one option, he had to find Neal first and fix this. 

*** 

For twelve days Adler’s yacht traversed the oceans. Neal spent most of that time in his stateroom with Jacobs or one of Adler’s other flunkies guarding his door. Adler would have him brought up to the stern deck for meals. The food always looked delicious, but Neal never regained his appetite. Everything he did eat tasted like cardboard. Maybe his taste buds were somewhere being held captive against their will too, he imagined. 

During their meals together Adler would go on about every conceivable topic. One morning at breakfast he ranted on endlessly about wheat futures. At lunch on another day it was the politics of medieval Italy, at dinner one night it was why Latin American countries couldn’t produce a decent Sangiovese. Neal would do his best to nod in all the right places and add a random comment or two. He had nothing to lose by remaining on Adler’s good side, at least until he had a chance in hell of escaping. 

Alone in his room, without even a book to occupy his time, Neal’s mind constantly drifted to Peter. Neal imagined most often that he had failed. That his shot struck Peter’s heart and Peter died there in front of the warehouse, alone, his last thought that Neal had betrayed him. Alternately, Neal envisioned Peter surviving the bullet wound, but contracting some sort of infection in the hospital and suffering for days before finally succumbing. He imagined that no one had reached Peter on the pier in time and he suffered oxygen deprivation from the blood loss or a punctured lung and he was comatose or brain damaged. Every scenario that Neal’s fertile mind could dredge up surfaced again and again on those endless days at sea. A torment of his own making that he couldn’t find any respite from. 

At night, when he managed to fall asleep for short spurts, Neal was hunted and haunted and taunted by his daydreams. He would wake with his chest heaving, his head aching and his heart broken. 

Neal had only one desire as he lay sleepless in his bed for the remainder of the night, that Peter lived and would completely recover and that one day, someday, he would understand that what Neal had done, he had done to protect Peter, and that Peter wouldn’t blame him for the pain and suffering he had had to endure. 

 

*** 

Peter went home from the hospital four days after that day on the pier. The location of his injury notwithstanding, the damage to his body had been minimal. Once the chest drain had been removed, the last holes in his body sewn up and the threat of infection avoided, his doctor had given Peter a prognosis of a full recovery, with time and some physical therapy. 

Despite that, El couldn't help but hover the first few days that Peter spent at home recuperating. Although his right arm was in a sling and his chest still ached fiercely without the Vicodin, he was capable of being on his own. But, he didn't want El to worry, and it seemed the only way to temper her fear was to allow her to constantly be at his side, fluffing his pillows, providing him with a seemingly endless parade of snacks and drinks and meals, supporting him every time he moved from the bed to the bathroom to the living room couch. It seemed to Peter that she was most busy redefining the term Mother Hen. 

On his fourth day home Diana and Jones stopped by. Peter ushered them out to the back porch hoping that if El didn't actually hear them talking shop she wouldn't give him a hard time about it. 

"Any news on Neal or Adler?" Peter asked once they were seated at the small outdoor table with sweating glasses of lemonade before them. 

Diana shook her head. "Nothing, boss. They're in the wind." 

Peter ran his untethered hand through his hair in frustration. "Adler is number five on the FBI's most wanted list. How is it possible that he can sneak in and out of the country at will, steal billions of dollars’ worth art and not be seen by anyone? Hell, he dredged a U-Boat out the ocean and parked it on a New York City pier. If I tried to write a book using this whole thing as the plotline, no one would buy it." 

"Maybe if your name was Clive Cussler," Jones mused. 

Peter arched an eyebrow at his agent. "Despite all appearances this is not a Dirk Pitt novel. We need to figure out where Adler's hiding." Peter hesitated, warring with himself once again over how much to divulge about what happened on that pier. "Look, I know Justice thinks Neal ran, that he aided and abetted Adler in escaping with the art. And, I know the two of you probably have thought that there's a good possibility that they're right, but they aren't. Neal went with Adler to protect me." 

"Boss, they left you lying on the ground bleeding out," Diana’s skepticism was clear in her voice. 

"They left me wounded. If Adler had had his way, they would have left me dead. Neal prevented that." 

"I'm withholding judgment on that until I can look Neal in the eyes when he tells me his side of the story. But, until then I'll defend him to Justice with every breath I have," Diana concluded. 

Peter smiled, proud of the people he had chosen to work by his side. "Thanks, Diana." 

Jones nodded in agreement. "I have my doubts as well. Neal's still a conman. But, he's our conman." 

"Then let's find him." 

*** 

Neal was surprised to find that the yacht had indeed made port at Cape Verde when he noticed the small island nation’s flag flying from the chart house at the end of the dock where they moored. He had thought that the ship's registration would have been yet another feint, another way for Adler to keep himself off law enforcement radar. Several jeeps met them at the pier and Neal was shuttled into one of them with Jacobs and the guard he had started to refer to as Shaft, for lack of anything better to call him. 

They drove through Santa Maria and then turned onto a coastal road that took them south. Some ten minutes later they arrived at the black, wrought-iron gates of a Spanish-style estate. Neal noted dispassionately that the gate was guarded as they drove through into a large central courtyard. 

After the jeeps parked on the cobblestones, Neal was led by Jacobs into the house and up to a second floor bedroom with an attached bath. It was well appointed with heavy, ornate furniture including a queen bed with two nightstands, a dresser, a desk and a wardrobe. A comfortable chair sat in the corner under a barred window that overlooked the courtyard. Neal wondered briefly whether the bars had been there last week or whether they were part of Adler's vision for Neal's _pleasant_ future. 

Neal didn't see Adler, or Henry Dobbs, the alias that he had discovered Adler was living under on the island, for the remainder of the day. A tray with his dinner was delivered just as the sun was setting. Despite the fact that he was glad not to have to spend any time in Adler's presence, it felt strange to eat dinner by himself, without the drone of Adler's constant, but inconsequential chatter. 

The next morning, Shaft shepherded Neal from his bedroom down the hall about 200 feet to a small library where Adler was waiting for him. Shelves, filled with books, lined three walls including the one with the door through which Neal had entered. The fourth wall contained a set of large French doors that led to a Juliette balcony that overlooked the courtyard. The doors were open and early morning light spilled through them onto two easels set in the center of the room and a table next to them that contained all manner of painting supplies. On one of the easels sat a blank canvas, the one next to it held a Degas. 

“Good morning, Neal. I trust you slept well.” Adler’s confidence and self-importance were out in full force this morning. 

Neal nodded, but said nothing. He had no intention of sharing anything about what he was feeling or experiencing with Adler. 

“As I mentioned on our voyage, I have a task for you,” Adler said waving a hand toward the easels. “Let’s begin with this Degas, shall we. I’ve provided you everything I think you’ll need, but if there is anything else, just ask.” 

Neal nodded again as he moved toward the easels. The Degas, a portrait of two ballerinas preparing to dance, was exquisite and Neal couldn’t help but admire the work. As he stood there before the easels Adler’s hand came to rest on the small of Neal’s back. The gesture was far too intimate and reminded Neal far too much of Peter. Neal swayed slightly from the onslaught of emotion that even the merest thought of his former partner brought down on him. 

“This is going to be a wonderful arrangement, Neal, profitable for us both, you’ll see,” Adler opined seemingly unaware of Neal's emotional state. 

Neal didn’t reply, he couldn’t. This wasn’t anything like the arrangement he had made with Peter. That deal had created a partnership. That deal had led to Neal fighting the good fight and learning that there were advantages to living life on the right side of the law. This was a deal with a devil, a devil who cared only about himself and his own greed, who had manipulated and hurt hundreds of people to satisfy his lusts and who had killed people that Neal loved without a second thought or a single regret. 

In the days that followed that first one on the island, Neal’s life adopted a new pattern. He woke in the morning, mostly ignored the light breakfast that was delivered to his room, except for the coffee, then he went to the library shadowed by Jacobs or whoever was the minion of the day. There he would work on recreating whatever masterwork sat on the easel, first the Degas, then a Van Dyke, a Rembrandt, a Vermeer, and a Renoir. 

Neal almost enjoyed this part of his day. It helped the loneliness and the fear of what had happened to Peter at his own hand to lose himself in the act of creation. Neal would concentrate on color, and brushstrokes and the emotions of the artist and his own anxiety and tension would slip away. Just for a little while, Neal could forget that his life was essentially over and that he had no reason any longer to try to get it back. It was a fragile sort of peace forged by paint and brushes and far too easily washed away in linseed oil at the end of each afternoon. 

After he finished painting for the day and cleaning up his supplies, Neal would choose a book from one of the shelves, Dostoevsky, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Marquez, Vonnegut, Camus, Faulkner, to take back to his room to while away the long hours of the night. 

Most evenings, Adler would summon Neal to dinner. They would eat al fresco on one of several different patios around the luxurious estate house. At first these meals were the same as the ones on the yacht. Adler would explicate endlessly on some seemingly random topic and Neal would nod in all right places as he picked listlessly at his meal. But after a few weeks, Neal noticed a subtle shift in Adler’s behavior toward him. He started touching Neal more, pulling Neal’s chair out for him, placing a hand on the small of his back as he had done that first morning, lightly grasping Neal’s shoulder. The tone of some of their conversations changed too and Neal was certain that Adler was flirting with him. 

The very idea of being intimate with Vincent Adler in any way elicited a wave of revulsion in Neal. Adler was a man who got what he wanted. Even in exile, he had wealth, power and the ability to coerce what he wanted from those he wanted it from. He had already coerced Neal into shooting Peter, leaving New York with him, accepting his own captivity and forging an unbelievable collection of masterworks. And, now it seemed he wanted Neal’s body as well. 

Neal didn’t want to give this one last thing to Adler, but he wasn’t entirely certain that he could prevent it from happening anyway, considering his current position. The truth was, he didn’t really care all that much what happened to him now. With the tug of his trigger finger, he had destroyed the life he had built in New York and for that maybe he deserved to become Adler’s plaything. 

*** 

At the end of his first full day back at work, Peter went to Neal's apartment instead of returning to Brooklyn. He pulled a chair out from the dining room table and straddled it surveying the space. June had covered all of the furniture in sheets to keep the dust at bay. Peter knew that everything underneath them was just as Neal had left it. June never doubted for a moment that Neal had been abducted by Adler and she wanted everything to be the same when her young boarder returned. As she seemed to be in all things, June was confident that he would one day. Peter desperately wished that he could share in that certainty. 

But unfortunately, the sheeting held a different meaning for Peter. It brought back memories of watching old movies late into the night as a teenager, sitting alone in his family's dark living room. In the world of black and white cinema only ghosts and sad memories filled with regret lived in places with shrouded furniture. To Peter, it seemed like Neal's belongings were stuck in time, mourning an owner they knew would never return. 

Despite that, it was here in Neal's home that Peter had the strongest sense of his lost partner. Neal was a lot of things, a conman, a forger, a swaggering pain in the ass, but Peter would always remember those moment on the sub, just before they cut through the hatch. 

_“Peter, in case this doesn’t work.”_

_“Yeah, me too.”_

They both had meant them, those words that weren't spoken. The emotions behind them were real and true. It was still hard for Peter to believe, but he had never had a better friend than the exasperating, brilliant, ambiguously moral conman and criminal he had chased for years. In most ways they were polar opposites and yet there was no one Peter would rather have as his partner. 

Eventually, after the sun had set leaving Neal's apartment cloaked in darkness and Peter's own guilt, he rose, placed the chair back under the table and made his way home. El was waiting for him, dinner still warm in the oven. 

"Hon, it was your first day back. I hoped you would have been able to leave at five." 

"I did," Peter replied quickly, trying to calm El's worries. 

She raised a questioning eyebrow. 

Peter sighed. "I stopped by Neal's on the way home." 

"Why?" 

"I'm not sure,” he confessed. “To feel connected to him, maybe to see if inspiration would strike." 

"Are you sure he wants to be found? I know you believe he didn't go with Adler willingly, but it’s possible he's already free and if you find him, you'll have to bring him back and he'll be on the anklet again." 

"I don't think Adler planned on just letting Neal walk away once they were out of the country. Adler takes what he wants and he doesn't give it up until he's done with it. I don't want to think about what condition Neal will be in when Adler decides he's done with him." Peter ran his hand through his hair, feeling the tension in his body swell. “El, he’s my responsibility. If anything were to happen to him. I don’t think I could live with it.” 

El came over and wrapped her husband carefully in her arms. "You'll find him. You always do." 

*** 

Neal had lost track of the days he had been living on Cape Verde from the monotony his existence had taken on. His only real source of time sense came from how many works of art he recreated. By his current count of eight paintings and two sculptures it was probably just over two months in real time when Adler first slipped into Neal's room in the dark of night. 

Neal had been reading, as he always did, and had just put the novel aside and turned out the light beside his bed when the door to his room clicked open. Quietly the door swung in, someone entered and the door was just as quietly shut again. 

Neal lay still, feigning sleep, hoping that it was just Shaft or Jacobs coming to make sure he was still in his bed. Neal cracked an eye open and in the faint light coming through his window he could see a figure approach his bed. Neal knew from the silhouette and the scent of expensive aftershave that it was Vincent leaning over him. The covers were pulled aside and Adler climbed in next to him. 

Neal's body stiffened as he struggled to keep his breathing soft and even in imitation of sleep. Adler shifted lightly onto his side facing Neal, almost as if he was trying not to wake him. He placed his arm across Neal's waist, snuggled in just a bit closer, sighed and then drifted off to sleep. 

For a long time Neal lay there afraid to move, afraid to breathe, wondering why Vincent Adler was in his bed, wondering more precisely why Vincent Adler was only just in his bed. Neal had never known Adler to hesitate, to wait, to finesse instead of force. Neal didn't understand the flirting, the gentle touches, the almost romantic manner in which Adler was behaving. Eventually, Neal slept and when he woke in the morning Adler was gone. 

For the next three nights, the same routine played out. Not long after Neal turned out his bedroom light, his door would quietly open, Adler would steal into the room and join Neal in his bed. He would say nothing, and do nothing overt. He would simply lay down next to Neal and wrap his arm around Neal's waist. 

At dinner the evening following that fourth night, Neal's curiosity won out. Vincent was droning on about fracking and the future of the oil industry when Neal interjected. "Why?" 

Adler placed his fork down on the edge of his plate and looked over at Neal. "Why what, Neal?" 

They were sitting on the veranda that overlooked the beach and the Atlantic Ocean. Neal could see the turquoise water as it washed in and out from the white sand shore over Adler's right shoulder. "Why the games?" Neal asked finally, setting his own fork aside. 

"I'm not sure I follow," Adler replied mildly. 

Neal sighed and pushed his chair away from the table. "I've never known you not to simply take what you want, Vincent. You've made it perfectly clear what you want now. Why the charade?" 

"It's not a charade, Neal. You've noticed that I'm still single. I'm sure you know that I've never been married, nor have I ever dated anyone for more than a year or so." 

Neal nodded curtly. 

Alder looked down at his plate briefly and then met Neal's eyes. "Maybe, I've finally figured out that taking what I want, at least in this particular arena, hasn't really been working all that well." 

Neal blinked. This was not the answer he had been expecting. He knew Adler didn't have a sincere bone in his body, he knew that any game was fair game in Adler's world, but he also knew that Adler's words were true. Coercion and manipulation were never valid routes in love and romance. Neal knew that from his own experiences with Kate. He had lost her because of his attempt to manipulate her into joining him in the hunt for the music box. 

"Why me?" 

Adler smiled. "Do you really need to ask that, Neal, or are you fishing for compliments?" 

"I've never threatened to kill someone I claimed to care about." 

"No, I'm sure you haven't," Adler replied as the smile left his face. "And, I won't apologize for that. I spent half my life searching for that U-Boat. I wasn't about to let you or anyone get in my way. But that's in the past. We have a future to look forward to, one that we can share together, if you're willing." 

Neal had no idea how to respond to that. The future was a concept that no longer had any meaning for him. He didn't want to be with Adler. In truth he hated the man, and he was certain that he always would. But, he wasn’t going anywhere, at least not anytime soon and living life alone, with only his regrets for company, held no appeal either. _"Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows."_ Shakespeare was profoundly correct once again. 

"I don't expect you to fall into my arms, or anything so Harlequin Romance. But do think about what I'm offering you, Neal. We could be very good together." With that Adler picked up his fork and returned to his meal. 

After a minute, Neal pulled his chair back up to the table, picked up his own fork and resumed his normal dinnertime activity of picking at his food while he contemplated Adler's words. 

That night while Adler lay sleeping curled up against him, Neal's mind wandered back to New York once again and all the different nightmare scenarios that he had conjured since that day on the pier. As silent tears rolled down his cheeks Neal knew with certainty that there was no way he could ever find peace, no way he could keep his soul, while Adler took his body, if he didn't know if Peter had survived, if he didn't know if Peter could forgive him. 

In the morning, he woke with a new sense of determination, and a plan to defy Adler, just once. 

He spent several days biding his time, until he learned that Adler was leaving the island for a few days to sell some of Neal's forgeries. And, then he bided his time for another two days after Adler was gone to ensure that his jailers believed that Neal was complacent and compliant. 

Despite the fact that Neal had arrived on the island with no intention of escaping, the thief in him had surveilled the entire property. He knew every entrance and exit to the estate, he knew where the guards were posted and what their habits were. He knew Jacobs and Shaft the best, including the fact that Jacobs carried a cell phone in his left jacket pocket and that neither of his guards actually spent the whole night outside his bedroom door anymore, even with Adler gone the last two nights. 

The third day that Adler was gone, Neal slipped that phone carefully from Jacobs' pocket using his most advanced skills, his body never even coming close to his guard's. He had to make Jacobs believe that he had lost or misplaced the phone somehow. It was the only way his plan would succeed. 

Once Neal had the phone in his possession, held tightly in the waistband of his underwear, he spent the next several hours holding his breath, and pulling off one of the best cons of his life. Being able to make this phone call meant more to him than anything had in a very long time, since he had knowingly sacrificed his freedom for the chance to be reunited with Kate at the warehouse. 

That day had actually ended better than he had expected. Yes, he had walked away in handcuffs, which led to his four years in prison. But he got Kate back, for a little while at least. Neal swallowed back on his fear that today's result wouldn't be as positive. That he would call the Burke residence to find El alone and grieving for her husband. He spent the remainder of the day with his expression neutral and his mind apparently intent on the Manet he was forging. He silently counted the minutes until he could return to his room to wait in private for the opportunity to slip out of the house and into the night to make his call. 

He didn't eat the dinner that was delivered to his room, nor did he sleep at all while he waited for the right time to make his move. His heart was pounding too hard from anxiety for him to concentrate on anything other than the way the sound of it reverberated in his head and the dreadful thought that soon he would know for sure that he had killed Peter. 

It was nearly four in the morning by the time he felt it would be safe enough to make his attempt to leave the grounds. His room, as he knew it would be, was unguarded and he slipped into the hallway and down the stairs without incident. He chose the French doors in the main living room as his exit point from the house. They were near the gate that led out of the compound and onto the beach. 

As Neal had hoped, the elderly man that Adler employed to guard the wrought iron doorway was asleep on his chair, his snores a perfect counterpoint to the sound of the waves crashing against the shoreline. 

Neal slipped through the gate and then jogged a half mile or so down the beach. It was an interesting night. The sky above him was filled with stars, but not far out into the ocean a storm raged with booming thunder and lightning that reflected brightly off the water. Neal took a deep breath before pulling out the stolen phone and dialing the Burke's home number with shaking fingers. 

It would be just about midnight in New York and Neal held his breath through the three rings, praying that Peter would answer. Then the line was picked up and Neal heard Peter say his name and in a rush all the dread and anxiety that Neal had been keeping locked inside of himself these past weeks flooded away with the tide. 

"Peter." 

"Yeah, I'm here. I'm okay, Neal." 

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Peter had to know that Neal never wanted to see him hurt or to cause him any pain. 

"I know. I know you did what you had to. Neal, I know you saved my life." 

Neal took a moment to savor those words, looking up at the stars that spilled luminously on the dark canvas of the night sky. Peter didn't blame him. 

"You can come home, Neal. We can work this out." 

"I shot a federal agent, Peter. I can never come home." 

"No one knows that but me and you, and no one has to," Peter countered. 

"And Adler and his guards. I just needed to know that you were okay." 

"I am, we are." 

Tears of both relief for Peter's safety, and grief for those Neal was forced to leave behind, came to Neal's eyes unbidden, blurring the points of light in the sky and reminding Neal of van Gogh's Starry Night. 

"Please come home, Neal. I can make this right," Peter implored. 

"I can't, Peter." 

"Can't or won't?" 

Neal could hear the kernel of Peter's core argument with Neal in the question. _"Are you a con or a man?"_

He wanted to be the man, and maybe by choosing to stay away from New York and the people who could only be hurt by his presence in their lives, he was in some way choosing to be a man. “You’re an FBI agent and I’m a conman. There were only a few ways this could have ended. This is one of the best.” Neal hesitated, breaking this connection was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do. “You understand this has to be the last time.” 

The line was quiet for a long moment, though Neal was sure he could hear Peter's wheels spinning. “It was good to hear your voice,” the older man finally said. 

“You too,” Neal agreed wholeheartedly, before cutting the connection. 

He held the phone tightly in his hand for a long moment wishing desperately that he could call back and ask Peter to come and get him, to save him from Adler and more importantly, from himself. But in the end he did what he had to do. He walked to edge of the waterline and threw the phone as far out into the ocean as he could. There was no going back. 

*** 

Peter opened the door and stepped aside to allow Diana and Jones into the house. 

Diana looked him up and down appraisingly. He was dressed in jeans and a burgundy tee shirt. Although his chest wound had healed and he was back at work full time, lines of pain and fatigue still stood out around his eyes. “How are you?” 

“I’m good.” 

Diana and Jones both looked at him skeptically. “I’m getting there,” he corrected, acknowledging to himself that his team knew him far too well. 

They made their way through the house to the dining room. “You were brilliant to set up the recorder to your phone line. My friend at Quantico slipped the recording to the digital evidence exploitation unit,” Diana said as she placed her laptop down on the table. 

“They isolated three distinct background elements to Neal’s call,” Jones continued. 

“Listen,” Diana bade as she keyed the command into the laptop to play the first sound that the techs pulled out. 

“Church bells,” Peter concluded. 

“Four in a row,” Diana confirmed. “There’s more.” 

“Ocean tides, rhythmic,” Jones chimed in. 

Peter nodded. “They were audible during the call.” 

“Listen to that fourth wave again,” Diana instructed. 

“It’s off rhythm,” Jones noted. 

Peter shook his head. “It’s not a wave. It’s thunder.” Peter’s smiled broadly. “All right, we’ve got church bells and a storm. It’s a start, right? I’ll make the coffee.” 

Twenty minutes later they reconvened with maps, a globe and the promised coffee. 

“The call came in at midnight. The bells rang four times. Let’s assume it was 4 PM where Neal was,” Peter reasoned. 

“Vanuatu, waves, church, no extradition. It works,” Diana surmised. 

“Ah it’s no good,” Jones said from behind the screen of Peter’s laptop. “The only storm activity at four PM at UTC plus eleven occurred up near Vladivostok, Russia.” 

“And, Adler doesn’t seem the type to enjoy Russian winters, Peter mused. “Let’s try four AM.” 

“Little early for church.” 

“Not necessarily,” Jones said in reply to Diana’s comment. “I spent my tour near a Chamorro village in Guam. The local chapel had a four AM service for the fishermen who went out before dawn. That puts him at UTC minus one.” 

“Cape Verde Islands.” Peter, said after referencing the globe. 

“No extradition,” Diana confirmed. 

Jones checked the regional weather. “Isolated thunder storms throughout the Atlantic. But there must be dozens of tiny islands.” 

“Diana, what about the bells?” Peter asked. 

“Well analysis says they were Spanish brass, but the islands in that area were colonized by Portugal, not Spain.” 

Peter sighed. “Dead end. We need Spanish bells.” 

“Wait a second,” Jones interrupted. “I think I may have something. In 1798 a bell was dredged from the wreckage of a Spanish ship named Trinidad. It was hung in the church of St. Christopher in the port city of Santa Maria on the northern coast of Cape Verde. And you got to love the internet, because I’ve got a tourist video of the bells ringing.” Jones hit enter and the video began to play on his screen. 

“Diana.” 

“Already on it, boss” Diana’s fingers flew on the keyboard and in moment the phone recording and Jones’ video rang out in unison. 

“Yes!” Diana exclaimed with a fist pump. 

“You’ve got to love the sound of Spanish brass. We got it.” Peter exclaimed enthusiastically. 

“What now?” Diana asked. 

“We go back to the office and find a way to bring Neal home.” 

The next morning Peter made his case to Hughes. He explained again that Neal had not gone willingly with Adler. He told Hughes about the late night phone call that he had received. How, with help from Jones and Diana, they had managed to pinpoint Neal's likely location to the small island nation of Cape Verde and how he intended to go there and bring his wayward partner home. Peter was eloquent, decisive, direct and determined. 

When he had finished his appeal, Reese looked up at his senior agent and shook his head. “Peter, you have no jurisdiction,” Hughes reminded him. 

“I know,” Peter admitted. 

“Then how do you think you're going to bring Caffrey back?” 

"Willingly, Reese. I know he wants to come home." 

"And Adler, you think he's just going to give Caffrey up, or better yet, turn himself over to you so that you can bring him and the stolen treasure back?" 

Now it was Peter's turn to sigh, drawing his lips together into a tight line. "I haven't worked out all the details yet." 

"No, I don't suppose you have. Peter, Adler isn't number five on the FBI's most wanted list for nothing. He's a dangerous fugitive who has killed multiple times, that we know of, to get what he wants. I can't sanction a trip to Cape Verde. Caffrey’s fate is out of your hands, Peter.” 

“I don’t accept that,” Peter replied shaking his head and moving his hands to his hips. 

“Well, you better.” Reese paused, looking closely at the man standing before him. “Peter, you look like hell. Personally, I think you should still be on medical leave. I'm giving you another week. Do yourself a favor. Use this time to get some perspective about what’s important. If you decide it’s Caffrey, I understand, but I can’t protect you. Do you understand?” 

Peter looked down at his boss. There was a look in the older man's eyes that Peter had come to recognize since he had begun working with Neal, since he and Neal had developed a knack for going outside of the box to successfully solve cases, often with Hughes' implicit approval. “Completely,” Peter answered. 

*** 

Two days after his literal jaunt off the reservation, Neal woke to the sound of his bedroom door opening. He turned and saw Adler stride in. 

Neal's initial instinct was panic. He couldn't help but fear that Jacobs had somehow deduced that Neal had stolen his phone and Neal's life was about to take a drastic turn for the worse. 

But Adler's demeanor wasn't angry, or the eerie neutral that was often a portent of bad things to come. In fact, Adler looked profoundly pleased. 

"Good morning, Neal," Adler stated as he placed a bundle of things he had carried into the room on the end of Neal's bed. 

"Good morning," Neal murmured as he shimmied up to rest against his headboard. 

"My trip was a tremendous success. And, as a reward for all your hard work, I've decided that we should take the day off. Everything you'll need is here," Adler said, indicating the bundle on the bed. "I'll meet you downstairs shortly." 

Once Adler was gone, Neal rose and picked through the items his captor had left for him. A pair of swim trunks, a couple of towels, a pair of flip flops, a robe, sunglasses and a bottle of sunscreen. 

Neal showered, lathered himself in the sunscreen, put on the trunks, the flip flops and the robe and made his way downstairs. 

Adler led Neal out of the house and off the grounds through the same gate that Neal had used two days ago. For a moment, Neal tensed fearing once again that Adler knew exactly what Neal had been up to and was playing out some sort of elaborate game before punishing Neal for his actions. 

But then Adler led them out onto the white sand where a table and two chairs had been set under an umbrella. A bit further down the beach, closer to the water, two lounge chairs sat side by side. It all looked like a scene from a luxury travel magazine. Adler made his way to the table and motioned for Neal to take the seat opposite him. 

Breakfast had been laid for them, mimosas, coffee, grapefruit, a selection of pastries and beneath shining silver warming covers, omelets. 

Neal let Adler ramble on at breakfast about his trip and how easily Neal's forgeries passed for the real thing. He seemed inordinately proud of something that Neal himself took no pride in whatsoever. 

After the coffee was gone, they walked down the sand and waded into the warm ocean water. Once it reached his knees, Neal dove in and swam out over the breakers. His legs pumped and his arms glided smoothly around and around in time with his breathing. It was easy and soothing and he hadn't realized how much he missed the time he used to spend in the pool at his gym in New York. He swam for a long time, until he felt his muscles start to burn and his strength ebb enough that he knew he needed to head back to shore. 

Adler was waiting for him on one of the lounge chairs. Neal grabbed the towel that had been left for him on the other chair and rubbed some of the water from his skin and hair. Then he grabbed his sunglasses and lay down against the soft cushions on the lounger. He sighed and closed his eyes, letting the sun warm his tired muscles and mind. 

A few minutes later, Adler reached over and took Neal's hand in his. Not even a week ago, Neal would have cringed at the touch, even as he allowed it, as he had those first few nights that Adler climbed into his bed, but his resolve and his sense of self-determination were already fading. He had to admit to himself that the touch of another person, even Vincent Adler, was comforting and even welcome in the isolated world in which he was now forced to live. 

Neal and Adler spent the remainder of the day on the beach. They ate a leisurely lunch of grilled shrimp and salad at the shaded table and whiled away the afternoon swimming, lounging and napping in the sun. 

Adler didn't talk much, which Neal appreciated. It was a new reality to live in a world with Vincent Adler where Neal could just be for a little while. Adler's reputation for being sharp and ruthless were well deserved as Neal had learned when he had worked for the man. In fact, today was the first time that Neal spent in Adler's presence where he didn't feel as if he needed to be constantly on guard, constantly one step ahead. 

As the sun began to slip over the horizon, they gathered their things and headed back up the sand toward the gate. As they reached it, Neal put his hand on Adler's arm to get his attention. When Adler turned to him with a questioning look Neal said, "Thank you for this, Vincent." 

Adler smiled, the crow's feet around his eyes crinkling. And then he leaned in and placed his lips against Neal's, kissing Neal gently. They were dry and overly warm from a day spent in the sun and as Neal kissed him back he reminded himself that this was what he deserved. What was it that Peter had said that night another lifetime ago when Neal and Sara had joined the Burkes for Cornish game hens and Peter had waxed philosophical about finding love? _“You just need to figure it out and when you do, you’ll be the luckiest guy.”_

If only Peter could see him now. 

*** 

Peter and Mozzie stepped off the old, repurposed school bus in the middle of Santa Maria. "Where do we start?" Peter asked. 

Mozzie, in his Hawaiian shirt and cargo pants, glared up at Peter. "Discretely. We need to find Adler before Adler finds us." 

Peter rolled his eyes, already frustrated with his traveling companion. "Obviously. Do you have any useful suggestions?" 

"High-end wares, clothiers, gourmet foods. Adler only buys the best. We find out whose supplying him with the stuff he needs, we find out where they're delivering it to." 

Peter nodded and with their travel bags still hanging from their shoulders they began their search of the town. 

The remainder of the morning was unsuccessful and after a quick lunch at a café, they decided to split up to cover more ground. Just up the street from where they ate, Peter spotted a street sign with a painted image of a hat. Peter smiled at the memories of Neal it evoked. He had never seen a photo of Adler in which he was wearing any type of hat, but Peter decided it was worth a try. 

Inside, the shop was a wall-to-wall Neal Caffrey wet dream. Hats of all sizes, shapes and colors lined every surface. Peter looked around for a brief moment and was then approached by a sharply dressed man in a white linen suit. "Can I help you find something?" He asked. 

"You can help me find someone," Peter replied. "I have a friend I lost touch with, who I believe is living here on Cape Verde." Peter pulled the photo he was carrying of Adler from his a pocket on the outside of his bag. 

The man smiled, "Sí, Señor Dobbs. He lives in a villa just a few minutes south of the city." 

The next morning, Peter and Mozzie found themselves positioned on a small hillside within binoculars' range of Adler's estate. They had yet to see any sign of Adler or Neal, but they had already surveyed the entire perimeter, made note of the entrances and exits, the number of guards, and any other possible routes into or out of the compound. 

Their current vantage point gave them views of the whole front of the property, most of the interior of the courtyard and even partial views into a few of the windows along with a portion of the beachfront to the east. Peter was scanning the building with their one set of binoculars while Mozzie sat next to him with a digital camera complete with zoom lens, nervously contemplating various plans that might enable just the two of them to rescue Neal from Adler's clutches on their own. 

"Maybe, we could find a way to break one of the windows. Then we can pose as repairmen and …" 

"Mozzie," Peter interrupted, lowering the binoculars and looked at Moz. "Has Adler ever seen you?" 

Mozzie shook his head. "Not that I know of." 

Peter frowned, feeling the tug of tightness across his barely healed skin. "Well, he's certainly seen me. If he finds out that I'm here... He'll kill Neal to keep us from getting him back, you know that, right?" 

"I know that better than anyone, Suit," Mozzie replied raising a hand to his own chest. 

Peter sighed and shook his head. Somehow he had managed to forget what had happened to Moz at Larsen’s hand, but Adler’s command. "I'm sorry, Moz. I guess we both have our scars to bear from Adler's machinations." 

They were quiet for a moment and then Moz waved a hand and said, "Forget it. Let's just focus on getting Neal back." 

Peter nodded and resumed his watch of the villa. Mozzie turned quiet then, pulling a notepad out of the satchel he had brought with him and writing at what looked like to Peter to be a furious pace. 

Almost an hour went by and then Peter saw the French doors open off the Juliette balcony on the west side of the second floor. A moment later Neal, dressed in beige slacks and a white tank top, appeared in the doorway. The morning sunlight cast him in a warm orange glow, but even at this distance, through binoculars, Peter could see that Neal didn’t look right. He seemed thinner and less vibrant, less Neal-like than he had been three months ago. 

"Mozzie, I've got Neal," Peter proclaimed, not bothering to hide the excitement in his voice. 

Mozzie sat up, fumbled around with the camera and stared owlishly through it toward the house. "Where?" 

Peter pointed and handed the binoculars off. "Second floor, at the balcony." 

Mozzie put the camera aside, accepted the binoculars from Peter, took a long look and then declared, "He looks okay." 

Peter nodded. "I don't think Adler's really hurt him, yet. At least we know for sure that he's here." 

"Now we just need to figure out how to get him out of here." 

*** 

Neal stood looking out the balcony doors into the courtyard. It was hard to be inside day in and day out knowing how beautiful the island was just beyond the gates. The Manet sat on the easel behind him, nearly completed. Neal sighed, gave himself one more moment to enjoy the morning light against his skin and then turned back to his work. 

By lunch the painting was ready to be aged. Adler hadn’t delivered his next project yet, so Neal took some time to clean up his work space a bit and catalog what was left of his supplies. He was halfway through a list of what he thought he would need to continue when Adler stepped into the room and went straight to inspect Neal’s latest work. 

He hovered between the two paintings where they stood side by side for a couple of minutes, closely eyeing the details. “Lovely, Neal, just lovely,” he finally proclaimed as he turned to look at Neal. 

“Thank you, Vincent.” 

“I’ll have a new piece for you in the morning.” 

Neal nodded. “Speaking of the morning, I was hoping that I could ask a favor?” 

Adler tilted his head questioningly and stepped closer to Neal. “Perhaps.” 

“I used to swim at the gym in New York most days, and I realized the other day when you took me to the beach just how much I missed it. I was wondering if it might be possible for me to swim in the mornings, at least a few days a week.” 

Adler turned back again to the Manet and its double. Neal fidgeted from one foot to the other. It had been difficult for him to ask, but regaining the sense of ease and freedom he had felt in the water the other day would be worth what it might end up costing him if Adler agreed. 

Adler was turned away from him for so long that Neal was certain he was just contemplating the best way to tell him no. Neal was preparing to offer Adler something he didn’t want to give, when the older man turned back toward him and smiled. “I think that’s a fine idea. I may even join you every now and then.” 

Neal felt his whole body relax at Adler’s words. He smiled back at his captor as he heard Mozzie whisper “Stockholm Syndrome” in his head. Then he said “Thank you,” again to the man that had stolen his freedom, his life and his hope. 

That night Adler entered Neal's room and his bed right on schedule. He leaned in and kissed Neal languidly and Neal allowed it, finding himself kissing Adler back opening his mouth and leaning his body into Adler's touches. Neal could feel Vincent growing hard against his thigh and then the older man rubbed his hand against Neal's boxers. But Adler's mouth and hands and body meant nothing more than the simple comfort gained from companionship to Neal. He felt no desire at all from Adler’s touch. Eventually, Adler gave up trying to arouse Neal. Instead, he pulled his own boxers off his body and moved up and over Neal so that he was straddling Neal's thigh. While Adler rutted against him, moaning his name, Neal kept his thoughts on the people who were safer because he was halfway around the world in this bed, with this man. He thought about Peter and El, Mozzie, June and Jones and Diana and New York and he imagined himself back there with them, working a case, sharing a bottle of wine, or a cup of Italian roast, laughing and teasing. And when Vincent came and then thanked Neal and kissed him, Neal was able to smile at Adler, thanks entirely to the memories of the life he had left behind filling his head and his heart. 

*** 

It was day three of their surveillance of the estate when Peter and Mozzie saw their hope of freeing Neal and bringing Adler to justice drive through the gate and park in the courtyard. The driver's side door of the white SUV emblazoned with the word sheriff opened and a well-built, dark-haired man emerged. He spoke with one the guards briefly and then Adler himself appeared from inside. Alder handed the Sheriff an envelope, patted him on the shoulder in what looked to Peter to be a typical condescending gesture from a man like Vincent Adler and then he returned to the house. 

The Sheriff got back in his vehicle, backed out of the gate and drove down the road toward town. 

"That's our way in," Mozzie muttered as he followed the back of the SUV as it drove out of view with his eyes. 

"The Sheriff?" 

"Not just the Sheriff Suit, the Sheriff Adler's paying protection to." 

Peter looked at him, eyes wide. 

Mozzie rolled his eyes. "He can be bought and we have rather a large amount of money to buy him with at our disposal." 

"The $500,000 that the Justice Department is offering for information on Adler's whereabouts," Peter replied with a slow smile. 

"Now you're catching on, Suit." 

A short time later, Peter and Mozzie were standing in the Sheriff's office. "Sheriff Morales on behalf of the United States Department of Justice I would like to offer you the opportunity to collect a substantial reward for the capture of Vincent Adler." 

The Sheriff looked at Peter and the badge that Peter was holding out appraisingly. "Who?" 

Peter smiled. "You know him as Henry Dobbs." 

Morales leaned back in his chair as he weighed Peter's words. "And, what would a man such as myself have to do to earn such a reward?" 

Peter shrugged. "Simply let him know that the Office of International Affairs at the U.S. Department of Justice believes that Dobbs is some Ponzi schemer name Vincent Adler, and that they have formally requested permission to act on Cape Verde soil to arrest him and have him remanded back to the U.S. for trial." 

"Señor Dobbs, has been a very, shall we say, cooperative and generous member of our community. We would hate to lose him, should your allegations be unfounded." 

Peter nodded. "I'm sure that he has," he concurred. "I'm also sure that half a million U.S. dollars will go a long way to smooth things over, with the community," Peter responded. 

"And how soon could we expect this contribution to the community to be made?" 

"As soon as Adler is on the flight we're chartering for tomorrow afternoon." 

"I think it will be possible to convince Señor Dobbs that the U.S. authorities will be paying a visit to his estate shortly." 

Peter reached out to shake hands with the Sheriff. "The U.S. government thanks you for your cooperation." 

After that, Peter made a phone call to Reese Hughes. It didn’t take long for Peter to fill him in on everything they had found on the island. When he was finished describing how Neal was obviously being held captive and how Adler was definitely on the island under the pseudonym Henry Dobbs, Peter took a deep breath and plunged into the deep end of the pool. “If Caffrey catches him, and delivers him to you, will Justice agree to let him return to New York and reinstate his old deal?” 

“Back on his anklet working cases?” Reese asked, his tone somewhat incredulous. 

“Working for me,” Peter pushed on knowing that anything short of having things back to the way they were before the U-Boat would be unacceptable to him. 

There was a long silence from the other end of the phone and Peter waited, hoping that his trust in his boss was well placed. 

Finally, Hughes replied. “I can’t make any promises, Peter, but I’ll talk to Justice.” 

“Thank you, Reese.” 

Knowing that their plan was in action, Peter and Mozzie ditched their surveillance for the remainder of the day, had a decent meal at the café where they had had lunch their first day in Santa Maria and then allowed themselves a full night's sleep in a small hotel in the center of town. 

Bright and early the next morning they returned to their perch above Adler's estate. Peter's chest and shoulder were aching from days of holding the binoculars up to this eyes, but he doggedly returned to the task hopeful that by the afternoon they would have Neal and Adler and be on their way back home. 

He was trained on the balcony where they had gotten their first glimpse of Neal when Mozzie jostled him. "It's Neal," he exclaimed. 

"Where?" 

"On the beach, heading toward the water." 

Peter turned and refocused the binoculars on the beach. And there was Neal, in navy blue trunks heading away from the house and toward the water. 

"He's always loved to swim," Mozzie noted. 

"Do you think he's being guarded?" 

"I would think so, but I don't see anyone," Mozzie replied as he scanned what he could see of the beach with his camera. 

"They could be hidden by the wall," Peter surmised. 

Mozzie nodded. "What do we do?" 

"We go get him," Peter said as he lowered the binoculars and rose from their hiding place. 

Mozzie tugged on Peter's arm, pulling him back down beside him. "As tempting as that is, Suit, and let me assure you that I find it very tempting, we can't risk what we've already set in motion." 

"Moz, he's right there, within our reach." 

"And, if we get caught, what then? Or better yet, what happens to our best laid plans if Neal disappears right before Adler's eyes on the very day he learns the Justice Department has found him?" 

Peter looked at Mozzie and weighed his words before he finally replied. "Nothing. Moz, do you really think that Adler gives a damn about Neal? That he wouldn't sacrifice Neal in a heartbeat to save himself? He's going to run as soon as he finds out he's about to be taken into custody." Peter hesitated a moment to let his words sink in. "Let's go get Neal." 

Mozzie nodded slowly. 

They formed a plan on the short drive from where they had parked their rented jeep to the edge of the beach, just out of sight of anyone who might be standing watch on the sand. Mozzie would play the lost tourist to distract whoever might be watching Neal, while Peter got Neal back to the car. 

*** 

When Adler left his bed in the morning he gave his permission for Neal to spend half an hour in the water, so Neal put his swim trunks on and headed down toward the gate that led to the beach, followed by Jacobs. Once they stepped though the other side and onto the sand, Jacobs dressed as usual in henchman chic, slacks, button down shirt, suit jacket and dress shoes, grumbled as the fine grains began flooding into his shoes. He waved Neal on and then took up a position close to the wall that was shaded from the morning sun. 

Neal felt the sense of peace that had come over him on his previous visit to the shore envelope him again as the warm ocean water surrounded first his legs, then his torso and arms as he waded in deep. He closed his eyes and let his body sink into the water and the familiar motions of the front crawl. He swam and he swam gliding smoothly across the surface of the water until abruptly he crashed into something solid. 

*** 

When they hit the beach, Peter made straight for the water, keeping low and moving as quickly as possible. The single man that appeared to be guarding Neal was intently focused on the water, presumably watching Neal, so Peter was able to get to cover under the surface of the ocean without being seen. 

Mozzie, in the meantime, was making his way down the beach, toward Neal's watchdog, waving a map in one hand and muttering to himself about how all beaches looked alike. Peter swam hard, making the ache in his chest and shoulder burn brighter in an effort to reach Neal in time with Mozzie's approach on the guard. 

Thankfully, Neal was swimming toward him, so Peter angled his path to intersect Neal's. But, apparently Neal wasn’t actually watching where he was going and they ended up colliding. Neal sputtered and struggled against the water and Peter grabbed his arm in an attempt to still him. “Neal, Neal!” 

*** 

Neal felt a hand close around his arm and he pulled back. His now open eyes were clouded from the salt water and all he knew was that someone had grabbed onto him. Despite his efforts the hand around him held on and Neal continued to struggle until he realized that whoever it was was calling his name. He used his free hand to rub his eyes clear and then beheld a sight he had believed he would never again see, Peter Burke. 

“Peter?” 

“Hey Neal,” Peter responded as he pulled Neal into his arms, hugging him as tightly as possible in the water. “It’s good to see you.” Neal could hear the delight in his former partner’s voice. 

Peter’s embrace was wholehearted and warm. At first Neal didn’t know how to react and his body remained stiff and unyielding. Peter shouldn’t be here at all, let alone a mere 200 yards from Adler’s clutches. But after a moment he relaxed into his Peter’s hold, relishing the feel of the arms of someone who cared about him for who he was. Whatever the circumstances, Neal had always felt safe in the older man’s arms. Today was no different. 

“It’s good to see you too,” Neal replied finally. 

After a couple of minutes, treading water while hugging Neal apparently became too much of a challenge. Peter relaxed his embrace, but returned his hand to Neal’s arm. 

Once Peter released him, Neal’s anxiety returned. “What are you doing here,” Neal asked lowering his voice despite their distance from the shore. 

“I’m here to bring you home,” Peter replied, as if his answer and his intent should have been self-evident. 

Neal tugged his arm again, though more gently this time and Peter released him. They were out in fairly deep water and he needed both arms to help with treading the water. Once he was free, Neal shook his head and sighed. 

“I can’t go with you, Peter.” 

Peter looked at Neal incredulously. “Of course you can. We have a car right at the edge of the beach and a chartered plane waiting at the airport.” 

“It’s not that simple, Peter. I shot you remember, and then I fled and broke my probation. If I go back, I’m going back to prison, probably for the rest of my life.” 

“No, Neal. We have a plan in motion. We’re going to bring Adler to justice, and you’re going to get the credit for bringing him in. We’ll get your deal reinstated.” 

Neal laughed, sharp and harsh. “You have a plan. Peter there’s a reason Vincent choose Cape Verde. There’s no extradition.” 

Peter nodded. “But that doesn’t mean that the Department of Justice can’t come after him. They just have to get permission from the government first.” 

“Justice is here, on the island? Are you telling me this is sanctioned?” Neal replied indicating their unusual position out in the water. 

“No,” Peter admitted. “But Adler doesn’t know that.” 

Neal sighed heavily. "Say, you somehow succeed and you bring Alder in, then what? I shot you. How are you going to explain that away?” 

“No one knows that but you and me. It’s not in my report, Neal.” 

“Adler knows, Peter. It’s going to come out at some point, you know that.” 

“No.” Peter shook his head. “You shot me to protect me, Neal. You saved my life. It’ll be okay, I promise.” 

Neal pushed away and began slowly heading back toward the shore, his body still turned toward Peter. “Go home, Peter.” 

“Neal,” Peter hissed as he lunged after his partner. “I’m not leaving you here.” 

Neal kicked out hard, putting more distance between the two of them. “I can’t go back, Peter. I’ll only cause you more pain. I’m sorry.” Then he spun and swam in earnest toward the shore. 

*** 

Peter slammed a hand against the water, spraying salt into his eyes. “Damn it!” 

By the time his vision was clear again, Neal was halfway to the sand. Peter started to go after him, but that was when he noticed Mozzie running across the beach and the man who was guarding Neal running toward the water. 

Angry with himself for failing to just grab Neal and swim for safety, Peter began swimming parallel to the land back toward where they had parked the car. 

When he reached the spot where he left his tee shirt and sneakers, he dashed out of the water, grabbed his things and ran for the jeep, being careful to keep his face turned away to prevent Adler’s man from recognizing him. 

Mozzie was already behind the wheel with the engine revving. As soon as Peter’s butt hit the passenger seat, Moz pulled away, steering the jeep back toward the hillside hideout they’d been using for their surveillance. 

*** 

When Neal waded out of the water, Jacobs grabbed him by the arm, pulling him roughly up the beach. “What the hell were you trying to pull, Caffrey?” 

Neal spread out his hands, trying to look as open and innocent as possible. “Nothing, I just bumped into some guy in the water and he tried to pick a fight with me. Said I knocked into him on purpose. It was nothing, really.” 

“And I suppose the short guy with the giant map blocking my view of you was just an innocent coincidence too, huh?” 

Neal shrugged. "I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Jacobs scowled. “Right. I thought you were supposed to be some sort of genius conman and that’s the best you can do?” 

“It’s the truth.” 

“We’ll let Mr. Dobbs be the judge of that.” 

That was the last thing Jacobs said as he pulled Neal through the gate and back into the house. They passed Adler’s office and Neal could see Adler through the open door standing behind his desk, talking with a man dressed in a sheriff’s uniform. Adler looked decidedly pissed. Not a look that Neal liked to see on the volatile man. He wondered, as Jacobs dragged him toward the stairs to the basement, if the Sheriff’s visit had anything to do with the plan that Peter had talked about. 

At the top of the stairs, Jacobs pushed Neal down the steps in front of him. At the bottom, Neal found himself in a well-stocked wine cellar. They turned down a row of shelving and at the end, Neal saw where they were headed. Set in the middle of the room between the rows of wooden casks and more shelves holding bottle after bottle of wine was a cell, four iron-barred walls. Jacobs unlocked the door with a key that was sitting in the lock and pushed Neal inside. The space was empty except for a plain wooden chair. 

“Enjoy your new accommodations,” Jacobs sneered as he locked Neal in. 

“Thanks. The space is a bit small, but the view is fantastic.” 

Jacobs snorted out a laugh and then left Neal alone. 

A day that had started out with the promise of just a little bit of freedom was turning out to be a horrible disappointment. 

Neal spent a good hour trying to find a way out of the cell. Not that he had anywhere to go, or any real desire to escape his confinement, it would only make matters with Adler even more complicated, but old habits die hard. He had nothing to work with but his hands, the string in the waistband of his swim trunks and the straight-backed, wooden chair that sat in the center of his cage. 

Eventually, with an audible sigh, he gave up and sat down to wait for the inevitable confrontation. Jacobs had clearly decided that Neal was up to something, which he would convey to Adler and knowing Adler as he did, Neal was certain that he would be furious. Despite the fact that Neal had no interest in fleeing, he was going to pay the price for this morning’s adventure. 

If he wasn’t so certain that Peter and Mozzie would be undeterred by today’s failure, he might have been okay with suffering the punishment for the opportunity to see Peter one last time and know for certain that he was indeed healed and whole. 

He didn’t have much longer to wait before he heard the cellar door open and then two sets of footsteps on the stairs. Jacobs preceded Adler, unlocking and opening Neal’s cell door and then holding it ajar for his boss. 

As soon as Adler entered the cell, Neal felt the temperature in the small space drop by a dozen degrees, Adler’s anger was that palpable. Neal stayed seated, hoping that the submissive position would help dispel some of Adler’s ire. 

For several minutes Adler simply paced from one side of the bars to the other until finally he turned and stared down at Neal. “I thought things were going well, Neal. I didn’t think I had to seriously consider that you were planning an escape.” 

Neal took a steadying breath and when he spoke he kept his voice low and even. “I wasn’t. I don’t know what Jacobs thought he saw at the beach today, but I promise you, Vincent, I wasn’t planning anything.” 

Adler nodded, but didn’t speak again. Neal had seen Adler use the tactic before, on subordinates that he was angry with and he knew it didn’t bode well. “I don’t have anywhere to go. I don’t have anywhere I want to go,” Neal continued. 

“That’s right. You’re a wanted man, hunted,” Adler pointed out when he finally responded. “But, I’m going to keep you safe, Neal. You belong to me. And, like all of my most prized possessions, no one will ever take you from me.” 

The almost feral look in Adler’s eyes as he spoke those final words made Neal’s heart speed up. Intellectually, he knew that Adler saw him as nothing more than a possession, but to hear the man say it, brought a frightening sense of reality to Neal. 

“I understand,” he replied, looking down at the cement floor of the cellar. 

“I’m not so sure you do, Neal. I think, despite your claims to the contrary, that you knew those men on the beach today, and I’m very disappointed.” 

Neal certainly could have tried to deny that he knew Peter and Mozzie. He had lied successfully a million times over in his life. But, for some reason avoidance felt like the wiser path under the circumstances. “I wasn’t trying to escape, Vincent.” 

Again Adler nodded, and Neal felt the temperature around him drop further. Then Adler stepped over to the door of cell to where Jacobs stood. He held out his hand and said calmly, “Give me your gun.” Jacobs handed the weapon over without hesitation and then Adler turned and faced Neal again. 

Neal stood, his eyes wide, and held out his hands pleadingly. “Vincent, you don’t need to do this. I promise, I’ll stay with you.” 

“I’ve never put much stock in the promises of conmen and thieves,” Adler replied as he raised the gun and pointed it at Neal. 

“Please, Vincent, don’t,” Neal begged as he shuffled backward the small distance that he could before his shoulders were up against the bars. 

Adler looked at him as if he was actually contemplating giving Neal a reprieve but then the cold mask that Neal knew so well descended on Adler’s features, he aimed and pulled the trigger. 

The bullet hit Neal in the right thigh. He felt the impact, like someone had slammed him in the leg with a tire iron moments before the burn of the bullet’s travels though his leg left him gasping. His body began to shake and he barely made it back over to the wooden chair before collapsing. He pressed down on the wound with as much force as he could, sending the pain spiraling to new heights, and felt his blood warm his palms as it seeped from the wound. 

“Yes Neal, you will stay with me,” Adler said calmly as he turned away from Neal and headed out of the cell and back out of the cellar. 

Jacobs dispassionately closed and locked the cell door before following his employer. 

*** 

Peter and Mozzie reached the place where they had been watching the estate just as the Sherriff’s jeep pulled out from the front gate. At least part of their plan was working as designed. 

“What the hell happened back there?” Peter asked Mozzie as he pulled his shirt and sneakers back on. 

Moz glared back at him. “I could ask you the same question, Suit and I think I will.” 

Peter sighed, his indignation at Mozzie squelched by his own failure. “He wouldn’t come.” 

“What do you mean, he wouldn’t come?” 

“He said he would only cause me more pain if he came back and that he didn’t want to do that.” 

“That doesn’t make any sense. It’s not his fault that Adler was behind the music box and the U-Boat and it certainly wasn’t his fault that Adler shot you.” 

Peter grimaced involuntarily. He still hadn’t told anyone what had happened that day on the pier. In his official FBI report he had stated he didn’t remember exactly who had fired on him, just that there had been multiple weapons trained on him and Neal at the time. 

“What haven’t you told me?” Mozzie asked, startling Peter out of his thoughts. 

Peter hesitated. If he told anyone the chances that the truth would eventually end up in some official report would increase exponentially. But this was Mozzie, the man that had absolutely no faith in the system and who would do anything for Neal. “That day on the pier, it wasn’t Adler or one of his men that shot me. It was Neal.” 

“What?!” 

“He did it to protect me, Mozzie,” Peter assured him. “He saved my life. Alder threatened him. Told him, if he didn’t pull the trigger, one of his men would. So he did, to ensure that I would live.” 

Mozzie considered Peter’s words. “Well, now I can see why he doesn’t want to come back. He doesn’t want to face time for attempted murder of a fed.” 

“That won’t happen,” Peter assured. 

“Right, sure, because the justice system really understands mitigating circumstances when it comes to violence against federal agents.” Mozzie made air quotes around the words justice system, which made Peter’s blood boil just a bit, even though he knew in this instance Mozzie had a point. 

“I’ll help him escape myself if they try to put him back in prison for any of this.” Peter replied. 

Mozzie must have heard the conviction in Peter’s voice, because he simply nodded, picked up the binoculars and resumed watching the house. 

About an hour and a half later a new car pulled up to the gate and was admitted into the courtyard. A dark haired woman stepped out of the driver’s seat carrying a black medical bag. 

“Suit, we may have a problem.” 

Peter turned from where he was sitting with his back to the wall they were hidden behind. “What’s happening?” 

In answer Mozzie handed over the binoculars. Peter took them and then watched as a woman he assumed was a doctor, carrying a black medical bag, was escorted into the house. 

“What do you think?” Mozzie asked. 

Peter moved the binoculars away from his eyes and looked a Neal’s oldest friend. “I think we fucked up.” 

***  


Sweat was dripping down into Neal’s eyes steadily despite the cooler temperatures the wine cellar offered. He was feeling shaky and nauseated as well. But, he couldn’t let go, couldn’t release the pressure on his thigh. He had no idea how long Adler would leave him like this and as bad as things were in his life currently, he really didn’t have any desire to die caged up like a badly behaved dog. On the other hand, dying would be a great way to show Adler that Neal Caffrey was no one’s possession. 

Sadly, there was more merit to option two that he really cared to admit. 

As Neal was imaging just how icily angry Adler would be to find him lying dead on the floor, the door above opened and someone began to descend the stairs. It was Jacobs again. He unlocked the cell door and tossed a shredded piece a white sheet to Neal. “Wrap up that leg,” he ordered. 

Neal complied, if for no other reason than to give his arms and back a rest from keeping pressure on his wound. He wrapped the sheet around his leg as best he could with his hands still shaking, took a deep breath to brace himself and then pulled the fabric tight. A roar of pain surged through his whole body. Thankfully, it subsided quickly because just as it did, Jacobs yanked him to his feet. 

“Let’s go.” 

“Where may I ask are we off to now?” 

Jacobs sneered. “You’ll find out when we get there.” 

“Excellent,” Neal snarked, “I love surprises.” 

Jacobs pulled Neal to the stairs and then pushed him up the first step. Neal hung onto the bannister on either side of the stairs tightly and made his way up as best he could, hissing in pain every time he was forced to put weight on his injured leg. 

On the main level, Jacobs guided Neal into Adler’s office and then pushed him roughly down into one of the chairs in front of the desk. Neal had just managed to catch his breath when a woman he had never met before entered the room. She came straight too him and placed a medical bag on the floor beside his chair. 

Neal sighed in relief. At least Adler wasn’t planning on letting him bleed out. Thank goodness for small favors. 

Dr. Sanchez introduced herself quickly and then got to work on his leg, first injecting him with a local anesthetic and then removing the bullet from his thigh. Despite the drugs, Neal tensed as the stinging pain intensified while he tried not to pull away from the metal forceps that were the source of this new agony. 

Thankfully, the doctor had the bullet out quickly and Neal sucked in a ragged breath in relief as she dropped it into a dish on the table beside his chair. She had just finished putting a couple of stitches in to close the wound when Adler walked into the office with a bundle of clothing in his hands. 

"Doctor, how is he?" Adler asked as he dropped the clothing onto the desk. 

Neal was flabbergasted by the concern he heard in Adler's voice. Adler was like an emotional yo-yo, sociopathic one moment and empathetic the next. It was more dizzying than the blood loss. 

"Assuming he keeps off the leg, he should heal fine," she replied as she taped a bandage over the wound. 

Adler nodded and then ran his fingers down Neal's cheek. It took all of Neal's willpower not to flinch away from the touch. 

"Neal, I brought you some things so that you can clean up and change in the bathroom here," Adler told him, indicating a doorway just off the office. "Doctor, I'll see you out." 

Dr. Sanchez nodded, finished gathering up her supplies and then allowed Adler to usher her out of the room. 

Alone, Neal took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It had been hard to turn his back on Peter that morning and he was paying a steep price for choosing to stay with Adler. The bullet wound in his leg would heal, but the scar it left behind would always remind him of what he had given up, a life with people he loved, who loved him back. He silently prayed that Peter and Mozzie understood that he had done what he had to, to protect them, and leave before Adler's next bullet found a different mark. 

Slowly he pulled himself out of the chair, gathered the clothes Adler had left for him and hobbled to the bathroom. Putting any pressure on his leg hurt like hell, but Neal rinsed the seawater off himself the best he could with a washrag at the sink, dried himself off and then put on the underwear, white cotton slacks and a matching white button down shirt. Before leaving the bathroom, he used the glass that sat beside the sink to drink some water. He had lost a decent amount of blood and he felt weak and dizzy. The last thing he needed was to let himself get seriously dehydrated. It was an effort not to just gulp the water down. But he took his time, sipping from the glass until he had finished its contents. 

When he exited the bathroom, Adler was waiting for him. "Feeling better?" He asked. 

Neal nodded. He didn't trust his voice to hide the pain or the contempt he was feeling at the moment. 

"Good, because we're going on a little trip." 

Neal startled and almost lost his tenuous balance. Did Adler know about Mozzie and Peter's 'plan' or was this simply an attempt to keep Neal tethered to his side? "Where?" 

Adler smiled. "Why don't we let that be a surprise for now, shall we?" 

Neal shuddered involuntarily since Adler's surprises seemed to have a way of biting him in the ass and made his way across the room to his keeper. 

Adler took Neal's arm and some of his weight as they made their way out of the house to the jeep that sat waiting for them. Two suitcases and a briefcase had already been loaded into the back seat. Adler helped Neal into the passenger seat and then took the wheel himself. 

Neal was surprised that they were leaving the estate unescorted, but he didn't want to question it for fear that Adler would suspect him and change his mind. If Peter and Mozzie were up to something, he didn't want them to be outnumbered and outgunned. 

*** 

Peter watched with his heart in his stomach as Adler led Neal to the jeep and then helped him up and into the vehicle. There was definitely something wrong with the way his partner was moving. 

"Now we know what the doctor was for," Mozzie said quietly. 

"We did that," Peter sighed, certain that their escapade on the beach this morning had caused Neal harm. 

Mozzie grabbed Peter by the shoulder and pulled him around so they were face to face. His eyes were huge behind his glasses. "No Suit, Adler did that. Just like he killed Kate, just like he shot me, just like he shot you. Vincent Adler with his avarice and his sociopathic inhumanity is responsible, not you, not me and not Neal." 

Peter nodded. Mozzie was right. Even if Mozzie and Neal had never attempted to pull the long con on Adler, the man believed, like many in the circles in which Neal and Mozzie ran, that Neal had the music box. Adler would have come into all of their lives for that simple reason alone. And, none of what Adler had wrought was anyone's fault except Adler's. 

They watched as the gate was opened and the jeep began to pull out onto the street. Then they quickly made for their own vehicle. 

"Can you keep on his tail without being spotted?" Peter asked as Mozzie took the driver's seat. 

"Does a wine have tannins?" Mozzie replied as he started their jeep and pulled out onto the road toward Santa Maria. 

Thirty minutes later they followed Adler's jeep into the gates of the airport and Peter breathed a sigh of relief. He'd taken the bait. Mozzie hung back, their own jeep idling while Adler drove across the tarmac toward the plane that was chartered to fly to the Canary Islands. "When he has Neal on board," Moz replied in answer to Peter’s questioning look. 

"Let's just hope he isn't armed.” 

Mozzie scowled in distaste. "Guns are for the unimaginative." 

They sat in silence then, as Adler stopped the jeep close to the plane. He took two bags and a briefcase out of the back seat and loaded them on board before going back to help Neal. Neal had maneuvered himself from the passenger seat onto the tarmac, but he had made no move toward the plane. Adler took him by the arm again and together they made it to the plane's hatch. Neal limped awkwardly up the steps and disappeared from view with Adler just behind him. 

Moments later, Mozzie pulled their jeep up beside Adler's and Peter and Moz quickly made their own way onto the plane. 

They found Neal sitting in the front row of seats, with Adler sitting just across the aisle. Adler got to his feet as soon as he recognized Peter. 

“Agent Burke, I should be surprised to see you here.” Adler looked pointedly at Neal. “But for some reason, I’m not.” 

“Adler,” Peter replied. “It’s going to my extreme pleasure to remand you over to custody.” 

Adler laughed, that annoying supercilious chuckle that sounded to Peter exactly like nails on a chalkboard. “And how exactly do you expect to do that, Agent. Cape Verde has no extradition.” 

Peter smirked. This was the part he loved. The part that made being an FBI agent not simply rewarding, but downright fun. “That’s true. Cape Verde has no extradition. But, the Canary Islands do and the paperwork has been in motion for days.” Peter turned and nodded to Mozzie, who quickly pulled up the steps and sealed the jet’s door. “We’ll be there in about an hour and I’ll have you in handcuffs five minutes later.” 

Adler scowled and turned and looked at Neal again. “You did this. You could have killed him on the docks. You were supposed to have killed him on the docks.” 

Neal shrugged. “You forced my hand, but you could never convince me to kill for you, Vincent. You may have figured out that I was trying to pull the long con on you all those years ago, but you obviously never figured me out. I could never kill anyone. Just like I could never love a man like you.” 

Peter did a mental double take at Neal’s final statement, looking from one man to the other trying to read in their expressions how difficult Adler had made Neal’s time on the island. He and Neal were going to have to have a long talk about exactly what had happened while Neal was Adler’s captive. Peter could only hope now that Neal hadn’t been forced to do anything that he couldn’t recover from. 

*** 

Neal watched as Adler’s scowl deepened and took on a sinister quality. It made the hair on his neck stand up and his skin crawl. But before he could figure out how to put his feelings into words, Adler drew a gun from inside his jacket, the same way he had that day on the pier. Neal shivered and drew back as much as he could while sitting in the tight airplane seat, with his useless leg holding him down. But this time Adler didn’t try to place the weapon in his hand, didn’t try to coerce Neal into doing his bidding. This time Adler held the gun trained on him, for the second time in one day. 

Neal took a breath and then shook his head, a strained chuckle escaping from between his lips. “You son of a bitch. Go ahead, shoot me, again. Kill me if you want. It won’t change anything. You’re finished. Your greed and your ego have finally brought you down. And, if you kill an unarmed man you won’t spend the next twenty years behind bars, you’ll spend the rest of your miserable existence there. Dying would be a price worth paying to see you end up like that.” 

Adler seemed undeterred by Neal’s words. He cocked the gun and straightened his arm, Neal’s head directly in his sights. 

Neal desperately wanted to look at Peter. To convey, in the one moment that he would have, how much he respected his partner. How he understood the difference between the kind of man that Peter was, keeping Neal in check to teach him, to support him, to help him have a chance at a better life and the kind of man that Adler was, keeping Neal just to use him for his own selfish ends, and nothing more. Neal wanted Peter to know all of that, and to understand what he was about to do. But, he couldn’t look at Peter, not if he wanted this to succeed. 

“Do it!” He yelled, egging Adler on. “Or are you just as cowardly today as you were that day on the docks? You still need someone else to do your dirty work for you.” Neal sneered and added, “You’re pathetic.” 

Adler’s eyes looked black as all of his focus settled on Neal. “And, you’re dead.” 

*** 

When Adler cocked the gun he had aimed at Neal, one and only one thought ran through Peter’s brain. There was no way he was going to let this end this way, with Neal lying dead. His words to Mozzie from a few days ago, _he'll kill Neal to keep us from getting him back,_ echoed in his head like the report of a handgun and his FBI training took over. 

When Peter heard Neal yell, he knew instinctively that his partner was riling Adler to throw him off balance and focus his attention away from Peter. Peter took the opportunity Neal created for him and grabbed the arm in which Adler held the gun, wrenched it back and around and slammed Adler’s wrist against the top of the seat across the aisle with as much force as he could muster. 

Startled by Peter’s sudden move, Adler let out a surprised cry and the gun fell from his loosened grip. But Peter wasn’t done. He was furious, more furious than he had been in a very long time. Neal was right, Adler was a user and a coward and Peter wanted him to pay for all the pain he had caused Neal, Mozzie, Elizabeth and himself. His fist was flying before he really even registered his intent. He landed a right cross square on Adler’s jaw and the other man’s head snapped back sharply. Moments later he was sprawled awkwardly in the narrow aisle, unconscious. 

Silence reigned in the small cabin of the plane for several long minutes. It seemed everyone, including Peter, was stunned by the force of his actions. Then the plane’s engines roared, dispelling the stillness and it began to slowly taxi toward the runway. 

Peter picked Adler up off the floor with difficulty due to the confined space and dumped him into a seat a couple of rows back from the front. He was just beginning to rouse when Peter propped him upright and then buckled the seatbelt around him. 

“Moz, keep an eye on him,” Peter stated as he moved up to sit in the window seat next to Neal. 

Mozzie nodded and made his way down the aisle. “I’ll keep all four eyes on him, Suit.” Then he sat down directly across the aisle and glared at Adler as if daring him to try something. 

Peter put his seatbelt on and then stared over at Neal until the younger man snapped his into place as well. Shortly after, the plane was in the air, and Peter breathed a relieved sigh. 

“How’s the leg?” Peter asked Neal eventually. Neal hadn’t looked at him since he put on his seatbelt and Peter was certain that Neal had mixed feelings about his rescue and his rescuers. But clearly he was in pain, his face was pale and a fine sheen of sweat was dotted along his hairline. 

“It’s fine,” Neal replied tersely. 

“Neal,” Peter began. 

“Don’t Peter, please.” Neal turned his head, finally looking at his partner. The anguish Peter saw there nearly took his breath away. “You shouldn’t have done this. You’ve risked too much for me. I’ve almost gotten you killed more times than I can count in the last three months. You almost died by my own hand.” Those last words were followed by a stifled sob. 

“Hey,” Peter soothed as he turned toward Neal. Ironically he felt his chest twinge from the stretch as he continued, “I’m okay, because of you.” 

Neal nodded and looked away from Peter. “Sure.” 

Peter wanted to press the issue, to resolve the anxiety and pain that Neal was feeling. But now was clearly not the time. Neal was hurting physically and he was plainly exhausted too. They would have plenty of time to work things out in Neal’s head once they were home and Neal was back under his wing where he belonged. “We can talk about this later. Now, I think you should close your eyes and get some rest.” 

Neal nodded again, and did as Peter bid. 

As Peter had foretold, Reese had come through and gotten Justice on board with Adler’s extradition and within five minutes of entering the airport on the Canary Islands, Peter had the paperwork signed and cuffs on Adler’s wrists. He made sure they were tighter than they strictly needed to be. 

Neal had sat silent in one of the chairs in the departure lounge with Mozzie glued to his side, looking even more tired and ill than he had on Cape Verde. Mozzie had tried to convince his friend to eat something, but Neal declined, only sipping at a bottle of water. 

Thanks to Reese, again, tickets were waiting for them on a flight to New York, via Barcelona. On the commercial flights Peter was forced to sit with Adler. He was sitting on Adler’s left side and he took an inordinate amount of pleasure throughout their trip watching the bruise he had created blossom and darken across Adler’s cheek. Peter wasn’t a violent man, and he didn’t generally believe that violence solved anything, but he had to admit to himself that taking some of his anger and frustration out on Adler with his fist had been satisfying. 

Adler had tried to talk to Peter on the first flight, with his not so subtle attempts to manipulate and coerce, but Peter ignored him completely by putting on the pair of headphones from his seat back pocket and pretending to watch the in-flight movie. While he stared blankly at the small screen in front of him, he worried about Neal, and played out endless conversations in his head where he told Neal that everything would be okay, that Adler was the only one responsible for what had happened these past few months and where Neal agreed and their lives resumed as they had been, with Neal as his partner again. 

*** 

When their flight finally touched down at JFK International, Neal’s leg was a mass of pain. He didn’t think anything was seriously wrong, but hours and hours spent sitting in tight economy-class seats where he had no room to stretch out or elevate his injuring limb, had left him stiff and aching. He stayed on the flight with Mozzie, Peter and Adler until all of the other passengers had disembarked. Finally Peter hauled Adler to his feet and ushered him into the aisle and up toward the plane’s door. When they were nearly gone, Neal hauled himself to his feet and shuffled out into the aisle. Mozzie followed him nervously, uncertain of how to help Neal as the younger man, hissed and shook as he limped off the plane and up the jet way. 

They emerged into a scene of only slightly subdued chaos in the waiting area. FBI agents were flocking around the space in their dark blue windbreakers. Adler was being taken away surrounded by half a dozen of them. Neal could see Reese Hughes, Blake, Diana and Jones among the throng. Hughes was standing with Peter and they seemed to be arguing. The look on Peter’s face was pure frustration. Neal glanced behind him and noticed that Mozzie was gone. Some things would never change. But Neal was grateful that his friend always managed to be around when he truly needed him. 

Suddenly, Neal felt dizzy. He took a shaky breath and then made his way unsteadily to the nearest molded plastic chair. From there he watched the end of the argument between Peter and Reese, when Reese handed Peter something that his partner accepted with reluctance. 

Then Peter turned, and scanned the room. When he spotted Neal, he made his way over and sat down in the chair next to him. Now Neal could see that Peter was holding a pair of handcuffs. 

“Neal…” 

Neal shook his head. He didn’t want Peter to think he needed to explain or to feel any guilt about what had happened or what was about to. “It’s okay Peter. I understand.” He held his wrists out. 

Peter grimaced. “I’m sorry.” 

“Please don’t be.” 

Peter nodded and gently secured the cuffs around Neal’s wrists. Peter kept them loose. Neal could have easily slipped them if he had had any desire to do so. “I have to go into the office for a while. Diana is going to take you to Lenox Hill and get you checked out. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” 

Forty-five minutes later Neal found himself lying on a bed in the emergency room. Diana had removed his cuffs when they arrived, so he was actually able to stretch out and get as comfortable as possible on the hospital gurney, after the nurse who had taken his vitals finished and left them alone. Horizontal was really good, he decided, but the position was making it very hard for him to keep his eyes open, despite Diana’s presence next to him on a chair. 

He was just drifting off when a petite, blonde doctor dressed in bright pink scrubs and a lab coat came through the curtains surrounding his bed. She was reading a medical chart. “Mr. Caffrey, I’m Doctor Watkins. I hear you have a gunshot wound to the right leg.” 

Neal nodded. “The bullet was removed and the wound was stitched.” 

“Well, let’s have a look, shall we?” She took a pair of surgical scissors off the tray next to the bed and sliced his pants up from the cuff to his hip. Then she carefully removed the bandage that the doctor on Cape Verde had put on his leg so long ago that it seemed almost like another lifetime to Neal, and maybe it was. 

She hummed and poked and prodded for a couple of minutes, before picking up the chart and scribbling some notations. “The wound looks fairly good. But, you’re running a slight temperature and you’re dehydrated. I’m guessing you’re also exhausted, by the way you look. We’re going to admit you overnight to get some antibiotics and fluids into you. Give you a chance to get some rest.” 

Neal nodded. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” she replied with a small smile. We’ll have someone move you upstairs as soon as we get a room set up. And, a nurse will be in in a minute to start you on an IV.” Then she turned to Diana. “Will he need to be cuffed to the bed upstairs?” 

“No, someone will be here with him until he’s discharged.” 

“Good. I’ll check on you later, Mr. Caffrey.” With that she turned and left the cubicle. 

Neal turned his attention to Diana. “You don’t have to stay. I’ll be fine cuffed to the bed, really.” 

Diana gave him that disbelieving look she had used on him more times than he could count. He had missed that look. “Not a chance Caffrey. There’s no way a bullet in the leg could keep you here if you didn’t want to stay.” The words were harsh, but there was amusement in her voice. “Besides Peter would bust me down to mail fraud if I left you alone.” 

“Thanks, Diana. I appreciate it.” 

“Don’t let it go to your head, Caffrey.” 

Neal smiled for the first time in a long time. It felt strange, but right. “Not a chance.” 

Twenty minutes later, Diana escorted him up to his room on the hospital’s second floor. It hurt when they transferred him to the bed. But, Diana patted his hand comfortingly and told him to close his eyes. The pain eased, thanks in part to the meds coursing through his veins. The knowledge that he was finally home, free from Adler, seeped through him and he was able to truly relax in a way he never could with Adler, even when he was trying to convince himself that a life with Adler would be the best he could hope for. He closed his eyes and felt his body melt into the mattress beneath him. And, then he felt nothing more as sleep took him. 

*** 

Peter spent a long ten hours at the office dealing with Adler and the paperwork involved in bringing a fugitive in from overseas. When he was finally done, he was beyond exhausted. But, he couldn’t sleep yet. As much as he wanted to go home, climb into bed and snuggle with his wife, he had somewhere else he had to be. 

Neal seemed to be fast asleep in the narrow hospital bed when Peter arrived close to midnight. Diana was sitting in an uncomfortable looking chair next to the bed typing on her tablet. 

“Hey Boss,” she whispered when she noticed him standing in the doorway. 

“Hey Di. How’s he doing?” Peter asked tilting his head in Neal’s direction. 

“Exhausted, dehydrated, hurting and a pain in my ass,” she replied with a wry smile. “He’ll be fine. They’re pumping him chock full of fluids and antibiotics and after some rest and some rehab, he’ll be good as new.” 

“That’s good to hear.” Peter managed to pull up a small smile as he made his way into the room. “Go home, Di. I’ve got it from here.” 

Diana looked at him skeptically. “You sure?” 

“Yeah, I’m sure.” 

“I’ll have Jones come and relieve you in the morning,” Diana said as she got up from her seat. 

“They’re releasing him in the morning, right?” 

Diana nodded. “Yeah, assuming he passes muster.” 

“I’ll stay and take him home. Then I’ll take the rest of the day off.” 

“Okay, night Boss.” 

“Night, Diana,” he replied to her back as she exited the room. 

With a sigh, Peter dropped down into the chair Diana had just vacated. He looked over at his partner in the bed. It felt good to have Neal home. That day on the pier seemed so long ago now. Neal had been willing to sacrifice everything he had to save him that day. And, Peter would never forget it. There were still some details to work out with Justice, but Neal would get his deal back thanks to Adler’s capture and in three years he would be a free man. Peter would do everything he could to make sure of that. 

*** 

The nightmare was so familiar that Neal knew he was dreaming, again. The gun was heavy in his hand. Adler’s words were lilting and hypnotic in his ear. Peter was standing before him. There was no fear in his partner’s eyes, but he was holding out a hand, beseeching. Neal could smell the salt in the air, hear the toll of the weather buoy, feel his body trembling with fear, though the hand holding the gun was as stable as steel. He knew what was going to happen. Adler had deemed that Peter must die and that Neal must be the instrument of his will. Neal was holding his breath. He couldn’t allow anything to throw off his aim. He blinked once to clear his vision, aimed down the sight and fired. 

The moment the recoil hit him, Neal knew that he had failed. That his aim wasn’t true and that his bullet had killed his partner. Despair filled every crevice of his heart. 

The scene skipped forward several hundred frames to Neal standing over Peter’s body. Peter’s sightless brown eyes reflecting the azure sky. The red blood that bloomed across his chest was an obscene primary color contrast. 

“I’m sorry,” Neal said to no one that could hear him. “I’m so sorry.” 

Neal woke then, sobbing, tears staining his cheeks. 

There was a hand in his hair, heavy and soothing. “Ssshhhh, you’re okay. It’s okay, Neal.” 

Peter. Peter. 

It took a moment for the image of Peter lying dead to be replaced by the image of Peter standing over him, his brown eyes filled with concern and compassion. It took even longer for the feeling of grief that had gripped Neal to ease. 

“Peter.” 

The older man smiled at the sound of his name. “That’s me.” 

“What time is it?” Neal asked as a deflection, as he swiped at the tears on his face. 

“Ridiculously late, or ridiculously early depending on your point of view. You should go back to sleep.” 

Neal nodded and closed his eyes, but the nightmare and the reality of that day on the pier were too close and despite how tired he still felt there was no way he could sleep again just yet. 

Peter’s hand was still in his hair, as if he was standing guard against another nightmare. Neal let himself relax into the touch, into Peter’s solid presence at his side. 

“It’s going to work out,” Peter whispered. “Adler’s going down and Justice is going to reinstate your deal.” 

Neal nodded again. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t have it in him right now to tell Peter that he didn’t want his deal back. He didn’t want to be put in a position again where he could or would hurt Peter, or Elizabeth or Mozzie or June. So he slowed his breathing and let himself drift, even if true sleep would be elusive for some time yet. 

In the morning, after some hemming and hawing about low grade fevers and the possibility of infection, Neal was released from the hospital with a pile of antibiotics, Vicodin and a hospital-issued metal cane. Peter took Neal to Brooklyn, insisting that it was necessary because a, Neal’s legal status was still in limbo and b, because El would kill him if he didn’t bring Neal home with him. Neal knew better than to try to argue and before he knew it he was ensconced in the guest room, tucked in the bed, with a lunch tray across his lap and El sitting next to him catching him up on all the celebrity gossip he had missed while he was gone. 

The bowl of soup in front of Neal was El’s homemade chicken soup. He knew it was delicious, but strangely Neal’s taste buds were still MIA, wherever he had left them after he had gone with Adler. He ate because he knew he had to until he felt like he had finished enough to be polite and not leave El and Peter worried. 

Neal spent most of the afternoon dozing. Every time he woke either Peter or El was there to fluff his pillows or get him fresh water, or help him to the bathroom. It felt good, to be cared for, cared about, and Neal let himself go with it, knowing that soon enough he would be on his own again. 

By dinnertime, Neal was feeling restless enough to hobble downstairs to join Peter and El at the table. There was a manila envelope on the sideboard behind Peter’s chair. Neal had heard the doorbell ring a half hour earlier and he could guess what was in that envelope. 

Thankfully, Peter left it to the side during dinner. It was a nice meal, roast chicken with new potatoes and steamed vegetables. Neal didn’t say much, but he listened in amusement as Peter and El amiably argued about siding and whether or not El needed new tires on her car. He remembered the last time he had dinner here, that night with Sara that seemed so long ago now. That night he felt uncomfortable with the domesticity, now it was like a soft blanket, warm and soothing. 

After the meal was over, El cleared the dishes and then excused herself, leaving Peter and Neal on their own. Peter smiled as he pulled the envelope Neal had noticed earlier over and laid it on the table between them. 

“Jones dropped this by a little earlier. It’s your new contact. It’s the same as before with no new conditions added,” Peter assured. 

In an effort to stall for time, if nothing else, Neal picked up the envelope, pulled the papers inside free and then spent a couple of minutes perusing them. 

While Neal was doing that, Peter dug into a drawer in the sideboard, pulled out a pen and reached across the table to place it next to Neal. 

Finally, Neal looked up from the papers. Peter looked expectant and happy and Neal had to swallow against the self-loathing that burned in his chest. “Thank you, Peter, for doing this. I really do appreciate it.” 

Peter nodded, the smile on his face growing. 

“But, I can’t sign them.” 

“You what?” The smile left Peter’s face abruptly and his brows furrowed in confusion. 

“I can’t sign them,” Neal repeated. 

“I don’t understand. Is there something wrong?” Peter asked pulling the papers from Neal’s grasp and across the table. “Jones was supposed to make sure that everything was in order before he brought them over,” he continued as he began scanning through the documents. 

Neal shook his head. “I’m sure they’re fine, Peter. I just can’t sign them.” 

“Why?” 

Why, it seemed like a simple question, but Neal wasn’t certain that he could really answer it. Not in a way that would satisfy Peter at least. Peter wasn’t likely to easily accept a non-answer either, but that was all Neal really had to offer, because telling Peter the whole truth, that Neal was too afraid of what would happen to the people he cared about if he took Peter’s deal would certainly send Peter’s protective instincts into overdrive. “I don’t want it. I don’t want to work for you anymore Peter, or White Collar, or the FBI.” 

Peter took a minute to absorb Neal’s words. Neal could almost see the thoughts churning in his partner’s mind. “If you don’t sign these papers, you’ll go back to prison for the remainder of your sentence.” 

Neal nodded. “I know.” 

“That’s really what you want?” There was incredulity in Peter’s question. 

Neal huffed. “No, of course not. But, it’s the best option I have right now.” 

Peter sighed and pursed his lips. “Bullshit. You let Adler get inside your head. And, now you’re punishing yourself for his actions.” 

Neal blinked, surprised once again by how damn smart and intuitive Peter was. Neal couldn’t deny that there was truth in Peter’s observation, but it wasn’t the only truth and it wasn’t the most important truth. “It’s not that simple,” he replied. 

As soon as the words had left his mouth, Neal knew that he had screwed up, that he had given something important away. 

“It is that simple,” Peter responded, pouncing on the opening that Neal had given him. Peter pushed the documents back across the table to Neal. “You’re going to sign them. I’m not going to let you rot in prison. I didn’t risk my career and fly all the way to Cape Verde just to usher you from one prison to another.” 

Suddenly, Neal was back on the pier again, with Adler whispering choices that offered no choices at all in his ear. Neal felt corned, trapped. His chest tightened and his breathing sped up. He stood up abruptly on shaking legs. His chair skid across the hardwood, loud in the silence that separated Neal from Peter. 

“You do not get to make my decisions for me.” His voice was shaking as much as his legs, but he knew his words conveyed the determination he felt. 

His cane forgotten, Neal limped awkwardly and unsteadily away from the table, through the living room and up the stairs. When he reached the guest room, he almost slammed the door to vent his anger physically, but he knew El was up here somewhere and he didn’t want to startle her, so he closed the door and reached the safety of the bed just before his injured leg gave way beneath him. 

*** 

Peter sat at the table stunned by the turn events had just taken, stunned and angry. What the hell was going on in Neal’s head? How could he be so screwed up that he would willingly return to prison, when he could go back to living his cappuccino in the clouds life? So it came with an anklet and a two mile radius. That was a hell of a lot more leeway than he seemed to have had on Cape Verde. 

Peter gathered up the documents on the table and started to roughly shove them back into the envelope. In the midst of the process El joined him and gently took it all from his hands and carefully put the paperwork away, even returning the envelope to the sideboard. 

“He didn’t want to sign them.” 

It wasn’t a question, but Peter nodded his head anyway. “I don’t understand what’s going on in his head, El. How could he possibly prefer going back to maximum security?” 

El sat down at her place at the table and took Peter’s hand twining their fingers together. “I don’t really think that he does, Peter. I think that’s he still reeling from everything that’s happened since the day that you were shot, since the day that he shot you.” 

Peter looked up, surprised. 

“You don’t think I can read you after all of these years, mister?” 

Peter smirked. He really should have known that he couldn’t hide anything from her. “He didn’t want to El, and he saved my life.” 

El nodded. “I don’t know the details and I really don’t want to. I know Neal is a lot of things, but when it counts you can trust him.” 

“Yes, you can.” 

“So maybe you need to trust him now,” El continued gently. “Give him some time to recognize that he’s safe and to work through what happened to him and what he needs to do to move on.” 

“How did I end up marrying someone so damn smart?” 

El smiled and shrugged. “Some things even I’m not smart enough to know.” 

***  


The next morning Neal got up late. He had heard Peter and El moving around earlier and hoped that they had both left for work by the time he finally opened his door. He found his cane resting against the wall and grabbed it thankfully as he made his way to the bathroom. He took a fast shower, unsure of how long his leg would hold him and then re-bandaged his wound with the supplies the hospital had given him while sitting on the closed lid of the toilet. Then he pulled on a pair of sweats and a tee shirt that had been left waiting for him by the sink and carefully made his way downstairs leaning heavily on the bannister and his cane. 

The house as he had hoped was empty, but when he peered out the front window he spied Blake sitting in an FBI motor pool car watching the house. 

El had left him a note on the kitchen island. _Good morning sweetie, There’s a quiche in the fridge and fresh muffins in the bread basket. Help yourself to whatever you want. I’ll be home by lunchtime. Love, El_

As usual these days, he wasn’t really hungry, but he cut himself a small slice of the quiche and warmed it in the microwave. He sat at the counter and ate the quiche and half of one of the muffins and made his way over to the couch. He laid down and propped his leg up on several of the throw pillows and channel surfed for a while. But he felt antsy and restless and when Satch went to the back door and laid down in front of it Neal realized that some time outside would probably do them both some good. 

In the backyard, he settled down on one of the loungers and when Satchmo was done with his doggie business he stretched out next to Neal, close enough that Neal could reach down and run his fingers through the dog’s soft fur. 

Neal closed his eyes and let the sun and the comfortable position lull him. He didn’t know how long he would have before the Marshals took him back to prison. He assumed that Peter would stall for a few days, despite the fact that he was clearly very angry with him right now. Neal hadn’t wanted to make Peter angry, he had caused Peter enough grief, but he supposed it was inevitable. How did he think Peter would react after he had gone to such lengths to bring him home? Even when he was actively trying not to cause people pain, he managed to do so anyway. That was why he needed to go back to prison, because no matter what he did, people got hurt. 

Around noon, Neal heard the front door open and close. He assumed it was El, so he stayed where he was to give her a chance to get settled in. Then there was movement in the kitchen and Neal waited, knowing that El would come and get him when lunch was ready. He wished mightily that food would start to taste like something again while he was still able to eat El’s cooking. All too soon he would be back to the cardboard carbs of prison. Then again maybe he didn’t want his taste buds to return from wherever they’d been hiding. It would really be terrible to fall in love with food again only to have to deal with prison fare for a three solid years. 

Neal was still ruminating on the horrible reality of prison food when the door opened and someone totally unexpected walked out of the house carrying two cups of coffee. 

“Sir?” Neal sputtered as he tried to rise from his seat. 

“Sit, Caffrey,” Hughes ordered as he walked around Neal to sit on the other lounger. He put the mugs down on the small table between them, pushing one toward Neal. 

With a small hiss of pain, Neal resumed his seat. 

"How's the leg?" Hughes asked with a wave of his hand in the general direction of Neal’s injured limb. 

“It’ll heal.” 

Hughes nodded and picked up his mug, taking a long sip. 

Neal followed suit, picking up his own and sipping gingerly. It had a splash of cream and no sugar, just like he liked it. Neal was contemplating how it was that Hughes knew how he took his coffee when the older man put his mug down again and turned to face him. 

“Peter tells me you don’t want to renew your deal.” 

Neal sighed. He hadn’t counted on Peter involving his boss. “I don’t.” 

Hughes nodded and then they sat in silence for a couple of minutes before Hughes spoke again. “When Peter first told me this morning, I tried to figure out what angle you were playing. Did you think Peter was going to sweeten the pot or come up with some way to cut time off your sentence? But, you’re a smart guy, Caffrey and I know you know how hard it was to get Justice to agree to reinstate the deal you had. There was no way they would agree to anything better. So that leaves us with you really don’t want the deal.” 

Neal kept his eyes focused on the yard and sipped at his coffee. He certainly didn’t want Hughes or anyone picking to carefully at his refusal or the reasons behind it. 

“And like I said, you’re a smart guy. You know what another three years in super max is going to be like, especially with the sign you’re going to be wearing around your neck for your whole stay. The one that’s going to read ‘snitch’.” 

Neal flinched at the sound of the word and hoped that it wasn’t visible to Hughes. He knew of course the reputation that working for the FBI would bestow on him in prison, but he hadn’t wanted to analyze that reality too closely. Going back, leaving the people and the life he had come to love to return to grey walls, bars and the morose and often violent world of life inside was hard enough to contemplate. 

Hughes picked up his mug again and sipped at it. The interludes of silence were making Neal uncomfortable. Not that he was ever really comfortable in Reese Hughes’ presence, but this was particularly challenging. “I’m not really sure what you want to hear, sir,” he finally said to try to fill the void. 

Hughes placed his mug back on the table. “I don’t know what really happened the day that Adler took you and the treasure and Peter was shot. Peter’s report was, shall we say vague, and Adler is naturally still not saying anything about anything. But something tells me the reason you’re so eager to return to living in an eight by eight cell and working in the machine shop has everything to do with the day. Just like Peter’s relentless need to retrieve you from Adler and bring you back to White Collar has everything to do with that day.” 

Neal opened his mouth, about to deny or redirect or out and out lie, but Hughes stopped him with a look. “Save it Caffrey. I don’t really want to know. I have a feeling it would give me nightmares. But do me a favor, think about this before you let yourself go back to prison; Peter put a lot on the line for you, his career, his integrity. And he didn’t do it to catch Adler or to make sure that you served the rest of your sentence. He did it because you’re important to him. He cares about you, about what happens to you. Don’t throw that away on some misplaced sense of nobility.” 

Neal blinked and was about to vehemently deny Hughes’ conclusion. But he couldn’t bring himself to utter the words even though Hughes was completely off base. The truth was, there was nothing at all noble about what he was doing. It was purely selfish self-preservation. Shooting Peter was the hardest thing he had ever done. He never wanted to hurt anyone he cared about like that again, ever. It hurt too damn much. 

Hughes was looking at him as if he could read every thought that was playing through his mind. And for some reason, Neal didn’t want Hughes to think him ignoble, so he simply nodded. “I’ll think about it.” 

“That’s all I can ask,” Hughes replied as he rose from his seat. 

This time Neal got up too and stuck out his hand. “Thank you for stopping by.” 

Hughes took Neal’s hand firmly and pumped it once. “I hope this won’t be the last time we meet, Caffrey.” 

Before Neal could formulate a reply to Hughes' veiled compliment, he was gone, back through the door and into the house. 

After a moment Neal followed him inside, went up the guest room, closed the door and lay down on the bed. 

When Elizabeth came home a short time later and told him that lunch was ready, Neal politely told her that he wasn't hungry, that he was going to take a nap. It was only half a lie. He wasn't hungry, but despite being extraordinarily tired, he couldn't sleep. 

His promise to Reese turned out not to be a lie either. As he lay there curled up on the bed, he thought long and hard about what Reese had said and the realizations that had come to him as a result. His decision to go back to prison was purely selfish. The upshot would be that he couldn’t hurt Peter again, or Elizabeth, or June or Mozzie, but he knew that even in making the decision to remove himself from their lives for their protection he had hurt them. Choices that were no choice at all seemed to have become his hallmark. 

*** 

When Peter got home, after a long day of paperwork on the Alder case and giving the DOJ and the Marshals the runaround about Neal, he found El in the kitchen making lentil soup. Of Neal there was no sign. 

"Hey hon," he said as he wrapped his arms around his wife. 

She turned in his arms and returned his embrace. "Hey hon. How was your day?" 

"Long. It's good to be home. How about you?" 

El sighed. "Fine, but Neal's been holed up in the guest room all afternoon." 

Peter scowled. He had hoped after Neal had had a chance to sleep on his previous decision that he would change his mind and things could go back to normal. Apparently, that had been wishful thinking. "I'll go talk to him." 

"Gently, hon. He may still be running a fever." 

Peter nodded, released his wife and made his way upstairs. Before going to Neal's room, he made a pit stop at the bathroom and grabbed the thermometer, a glass of water and the Tylenol. When he knocked on the bedroom door, the pills rattled in their bottle. "Neal." 

There was no reply for a long moment and then Peter heard Neal's voice through the door. "I'm not really hungry, Peter. But, thanks." 

Peter opened the door and stepped into the room. "Then it's a good thing I didn't come about dinner," he replied waggling the thermometer. 

Neal was lying on his side on the bed, his injured leg propped on a pillow between his thighs. He sighed when he saw the things Peter was carrying and pulled himself up to lie partly against the headboard. "That's really not necessary. I'm fine." 

"When you've been fever free for 24 hours, then I might start to buy the I'm fine bit, but until then…" He left the end of his sentence hanging as he sat on the edge of the bed and held the thermometer out to Neal. 

Neal rolled his eyes, but took the device and stuck it in his mouth without looking at his partner. When it beeped, Neal pulled it out and handed to back to Peter. 

Peter tsked at the reading. "One hundred point four," he grumbled. "Take these," he continued as he shook two pills out the Tylenol bottle. 

Silently, Neal took the offered medication and the glass of water to wash them down. He tried to hand the tumbler back to Peter after only sipping at the water, but Peter glared and Neal sighed and then drank all the water before handing the glass off. Neal slid back down on the bed and put his arm over his eyes. 

It was a dismissal, but Peter wasn't ready to leave. He was determined to hash things out with the younger man again, gently, but purposefully. "Neal, I want to know why you've decided not to re-up your deal. After everything, I think I deserve to at least know why." 

Neal was quiet for a long minute. And, then he took his arm away from his eyes and looked at Peter. "I'm sorry, Peter. I'm truly sorry I hurt you again, but this is what I have to do. Please believe that I never wanted to hurt you, or Elizabeth." 

"Oh Neal, of course I know that. And, I think I understand more about what's going on in your head than you know." 

Neal closed his eyes and Peter could see it for what it was, another escape attempt. Neal was always trying to run from something. It was time for him to stay and accept the good things this life had to offer him. 

Peter rested his hand on Neal's calf. "I've worked White Collar since I first graduated from the academy. As jobs in the FBI go, it's relatively calm. I've only needed to draw my gun a couple dozen times in two decades and I've had to fire it even less. But that doesn't mean I've never shot anyone, never killed anyone." 

Peter watched as a tear ran out of the corner of Neal's eye and down his cheek. "I'm not trying to tell you that it's easy or okay or whatever other platitude comes to mind. It's not. I know I did the right thing, each and every time I've ever fired my weapon, but I still regret the harm I caused. I always will." 

Peter knew Neal was listening, as more tears joined the first. "You did the right thing, Neal. In the end that's what's important. I'm proud of you. And, I know it’s your decision but, I want you to stay and be my partner again." 

Peter could feel Neal's leg shuddering under his palm. He rubbed his hand up and down along Neal's calf for several minutes until Neal's body quieted. "I know it's cliché, but let's live to fight another day." 

With a final pat on Neal's leg, Peter got up and went to the door. "Dinner will be ready in about 30 minutes. We'd really like you to join us." 

Peter left the room and closed the door softly behind him. He stood there in the hallway for a moment more, hoping that he had said the right thing, done the right thing, and that Neal would change his mind. It would break his heart to have to send his partner, his friend, back to prison. 

*** 

Neal wiped away the tears that had begun to dry on this cheeks while Peter's words rang in his ears, _I'm proud of you. And, I know it’s your decision but, I want you to stay and be my partner again._ Words Neal had never expected to hear and wasn’t certain he could accept. 

But he was so tired of being stuck in places that were not of his own choosing, so tired of letting Adler dictate how he lived. Neal suddenly realized that Adler had been dictating his choices since the day he agreed to Mozzie’s long con, more than half a decade ago. Neal shivered; his body reacting to the awfulness of his thoughts. 

Now thanks to Peter, Adler was behind bars and would remain there for a very long time. Neal didn’t have to live under the shadow of a man who claimed to care about him but who had no real understanding of what that meant. He had a choice. 

Neal took a couple of deep breaths and sat up, swinging his legs carefully off the side of the bed. His head swam momentarily, but he closed his eyes and everything settled back into place quickly enough. He grabbed his cane and levered himself up from the bed and made his way slowly downstairs. 

Peter and El were already at the table when he finally arrived; but there was a place set for him. When he sat down across from Peter, a smile spread across the older man’s face. Neal liked the way it looked on him, liked the fact that he put it there. Peter’s smile was genuine and heartfelt. It was so completely different from any of the looks that Adler had ever bestowed on him. 

El filled Neal’s bowl from the terrine that sat on the table and placed it in front of him. Then she added a couple of slices of fresh, warm bread to his plate. “There you go, sweetie. Eat up.” 

The lentil soup was rich and earthy and the lentils had just the right texture. The carrots in the mixture added a sweetness against the chili powder Neal could taste. The bread was just the right balance of crispy crust and tender middle and the butter Neal spread on it was perfectly creamy and salty. Neal ate his whole bowl and half of another and three pieces of bread before he finally put his spoon down with a contented sigh. 

“That was delicious, thank you.” 

“You’re very welcome. I’m just glad to see you eating. You’ve gotten far too skinny,” El replied with a smile of her own. But Neal could hear the worry and the caring in her tone. 

“I’m sorry. I’ll do better, I promise.” 

“Oh honey, I don’t want you to do it for me. I want you to do it for yourself, okay?” 

Neal nodded, unexpectedly a little overwhelmed by how much Peter and El cared about him, despite everything. 

He pushed himself up from the table and walked around it to the sideboard. He picked up the manila envelope that held his contract and pulled a pen from the drawer. Before he could let himself second guess his decision, Neal pulled the documents from the envelope and signed them. 

As he was trying to place the pen back in the drawer, Peter stood and enveloped Neal in his arms. Peter might claim to be awkward and uncertain when it came to emotional stuff, but he definitely knew how to give a hug. His arms were strong and supportive, his hold warm and filled with the protective caring that Neal had come to see as the heart of who Peter was. Neal put his head down on Peter’s shoulder and brought his own arms up to return the embrace. Neal hoped that in his acceptance he was able to convey even a little of the gratitude he felt for Peter’s understanding and his love. 

Five days later, on a bright Monday morning, Neal walked through the glass doors to the White Collar offices with Peter at his side and an open smile on his face. Hughes was standing on the balcony outside his office and when he noticed Neal he gave the younger man a nod. Neal nodded back, in gratitude for the part Hughes had played in convincing him to accept that this was where he belonged. 

Jones and Diana met Neal and Peter at Neal’s desk. “The prodigal son returns,” Jones snarked. 

“Something like that,” Neal replied accepting the light teasing. “Thank you both for bringing me back.” 

“Don’t let it go to head, Caffrey,” Diana chided, but her words were softened by the hand she laid against his arm. 

“I won’t, I promise.” 

“Good, now that the pleasantries are out of the way, there’s a stack of mortgage fraud files waiting on your desk,” Peter said pointing to the pile of folders in the center of Neal’s workspace. 

“Wow Peter, for me,” Neal responded playfully, laying a hand against his chest. 

“Don’t say I never gave you anything,” Peter replied keeping up with the teasing and light tone the conversation had taken. 

Neal looked at Peter before he answered, no hint of the conman that he once was on his face. “Never.” 


End file.
